Through your darkest days
by janinePSA
Summary: Post-movie. When Holmes looses his eyesight, Watson has to move back in to take care of his friend. HolmesxWatson eventually
1. Prologue

**_I had this lying around for a while and my plan was to finish at least a raw version before I put anything up. But now I changed my mind in the hope that I will feel more pressured to finish it, once I uploaded the first chapters. The central idea is not very original - classic slash motive - but I usually enjoy reading those stories and I hope so will others._**

_**As you all know, I do not own Sherlock Holmes, I'm just playing with other people's property here.  
**_

**1. Prologue**

John Watson enjoys the tidy look of his dinner-table: Roasted chicken and potatoes, fresh flowers, porcelain service, polished silverware and a white table cloth – nothing else.

No suspicious substances the smell of which is an insult to the nostrils and would put less hardened stomachs off their food in seconds (sometimes his too, despite his hard-bitten experience); no dirty handkerchiefs, half-finished and half-rotten sandwiches or pieces of cloth drenched in blood and sweat that of course are all important clues or even 'evidence' and most importantly: no bodies or parts thereof. Not even the repulsive stains and blotches of unknown origin that never even fade with washing and that he had started to believe were an integral part of any self-respecting table cover – no, none of that.

And his beautiful new wife smiles at him as she blows out the match she just lit a long, yellowish candle with, the fire-light bathing her face in a warm and rich glow.

"You're beautiful." he says and she just smiles at him some more. "Go ahead, while it's still warm." she then suggests, gesturing at the steaming dishes and he starts to fill his plate, when suddenly there is a harsh knock at the door.

Mary gives her husband a questioning glance but he just shrugs, so she gets up to answer the door. Watson strains to listen, but he can't hear anything and really, there is no need to, as seconds later a meek and pale-looking Clarky is ushered into the dining room.

"G'evening doctor." he greets nervously. The doctor's features turn stern and it would be hard to miss the annoyance in his voice when he answers: "I thought we had this sorted out once and for all. I am not part of the detective work any more. I thought I had made it very clear that I do not want to be troubled with any crime cases ever again." He turns to his wife who has come in after the policeman: "I am so sorry, dear." Clarky turns his hat in his hands as he goes on to speak: "That's not it doctor. It's about Holmes, I thought you would like to know. He … had an accident."

Coldness overcomes the doctor as his stomach turns into a lump of ice. "What kind of accident?" he whispers, fearing the worst. The officer looks right past his face when he answers: "Um, some kind of wooden construction collapsed on top of him. And, um, someone must have attacked him with a knife before that. Cut right through his eyes. Messy business. Sorry miss." Clarky turns to Mary who has become quite white and puts her right hand up to her mouth in shock.

Watson isn't sure if she said anything, there is a dull hissing in his ears and he starts to feel a little dizzy. "When? How?" he stammers. "We found him this morning, down by the harbour. Must have happened some time that night." the policemen informs him. "Is he ..." There is things you never dare to say out loud and cliché sentences you never wish to hear from your own mouth and this is one of them. Watson thinks that the words feel strange on his lips. Two little words and one left unspoken, but its ghost, in its silence, feels thicker on his tongue than any word has ever done before.

"He's down at St. Anne's Hospital. They say he was quite lucky, with all the debris falling down on him. No severe crushes or something like that." Clarky's voices reaches him through the fog. "Oh." Watson manages, trying to process the information. "Can I see him?" "You'll have to ask the doctors. I just thought you would want to be informed." the officer explains, putting his hat back on. "Yes, thank you Clarky." the doctor replies.

When the messenger of ill news has left he turns, grips the edge of the table to steady himself and then lowers himself down on a chair, finding, as he looks up, that Mary has taken a seat as well and looks at him with pained sympathy. She places a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry love, that's horrible." He breathes deeply and catches her gaze. "Yes. I … I think I should go down to St. Anne's and see if I can find out something more. Sorry ..." He waves a hand at the untouched food on the table. "That's ok. I'll heat it up again later. Rush off." "Thanks." the husband replies, kissing the hand that still rests on his arm and then puts it down on the table gently. And with that he hurries from the room, grabs his coat and is out of the door.

Mary gets up and, with a wistful sigh, blows out the candle-flame.


	2. Decisions

_**Ok, second chapter. Let me know what you think.**_

_**And big thanks to WaterSpirit1 for the encouraging review. :-)  
**_

**2. Decisions**

„Dr. Watson?"

He turns around to see who's calling out to him and immediately recognizes the tall man with the strikingly aristocratic features, who is stretching his hand out to him.

"Mycroft Holmes, we've met, if you remember?"

"Yes, certainly." the doctor nods a greeting. "You're here to see your brother." It isn't really a question.

"I did arrive yesterday actually, but I can't really afford to linger around the hospital much longer. So I have to decide how to proceed in this case and well, I was hoping you could give me an opinion – as a medical man and as a friend of my brothers."

For some obscure reason, Watson feels nervous at that. "I'm not an ocular specialist, but if there's anything I could help with …" he offers.

"Thank you, doctor." The older man waves a hand at the nearby set of chairs. "Will you sit down for a moment?"

"Thing is," he starts as they have made themselves comfortable, "the doctors, the specialists, if I may say so, are pessimistic. You probably knew that." he gives Watson a questioning glance.

"Yes." the latter admits, feeling strangely like a nosy intruder. "I've been talking to the ophthalmologist only this morning."

"Then you know how matters stand." the other man concludes. "It is quite certain that he will not regain his sight and therefore will be in need of care and help. For life, but most importantly for the upcoming weeks, which should be a crucial period for his mental, I mean psychological well-being."

Watson nods silently, processing the words without letting himself be led to full awareness, knowing all to well, that this state of numbness can't last, that he will have to face the facts soon.

"So, of course I want to take him to my house." Mycroft continues. "He's my only brother and I wouldn't stand for him being put in any kind of nursery home. But I've been talking to the doctors and they suggested that I should find someone to take care of him here in London, in his own apartment to begin with. They argued that every part of his life that could be kept stable would count in favour for a quick psychological recovery, since in his current state he will feel that everything has fallen from control, his whole life slipping through his fingers, and that any change that could possibly be avoided should be avoided. To grant him at least some stability, something to hold on to when so much is breaking away."

"Hm." Watson offers, feeling like he is supposed to say something at this point, as the other man chose to pause the conversation. "That sounds reasonable."

'Weak statement' he thinks to himself.

"You reckon I should do it then?" The dark-haired man leans forward and his face changes a little from politely distanced to more personal. "You see, I presume you know my brother better than anyone else. At least I couldn't think of anyone else. Me and Sherlock-, well, it's not that we don't get along, but we have never been that close. So I'm not that sure anyway that I could handle this whole situation in the ideal way. Do you believe he would prefer to stay in London for now? I wouldn't want him to think that I'm shunting him with strangers instead of taking him to my home ..."

Watson feels a little apprehensive at the obvious inner struggle and discomfort of his dialogue partner. Seriously trying to give sound advice, he takes a moment to ponder the whole situation and then, unhesitating, comes to a definite conclusion.

"I can do it." he states.

"What?" the other man doesn't catch his intent.

"I mean, I can take care of him, here in London, in our old lodgings. It's really the best solution. He doesn't take very well to strangers patronizing him, but I've been doing it for years, so he's used to that at least. And I think it would be important that he has a friend around, someone he feels comfortable around and someone he can trust completely."

The answer to that suggestion is nonplussed: "But surely you will be needed at the clinic. At home. I'm afraid this would be a full-time responsibility for at least eight weeks from now."

Watson is not unsettled: "I'm well aware of that, sir and I assure you I'm not taking this lightly. But as you pointed out correctly, I am his closest friend and I would hate to leave him to somebody else's care. Not lastly because I'd dread the outcome. If you give your consent, and Sherlock as well of course, my mind is made up. It's not like it's going to be forever. "

He isn't bluffing, his mind has been made up, that very moment.

The older Holmes blinks at him and then ushers a small smile. "Well, doctor, if you're sure, I don't think I have to tell you, that that would make me rest a whole lot easier. I wouldn't dare to demand such a commitment from you, but if you'd voluntarily choose to ... take the part that'd be quite a load of my mind. Finding someone who Sherlock would accept seemed like such a Sisyphean task."

He smiles bashfully at the doctor.

"Good." Watson declares. "I'll ask him then, if that's alright."

Again the other man gives a relieved impression. "Yes, thank you doctor."

* * *

Mrs. Mary Watson's brow wrinkles as she tries to figure out whether she is confused or irritated. "You what?" she asks incredulously, her tone finding the perfect balance between both emotions.

Her husband looks up from the suitcase he just placed a pile of fresh shirts in. "It's just going to be a few weeks. Until he has come to terms with the situation." he explains, straightening a crease with both hands. "But, ... " his wife starts, unsure how to express her discomfort. "You just moved out of there."

'And it took you long enough.' she thinks grimly to herself.

The doctor is already hurrying to the wardrobe again, grabbing socks and underwear from the shelves. "I'll be back as soon as possible, promise." he announces to the inside of the oak-closet.

"John! Are you listening? We just got married and I find it hardly appropriate for you to move back into your bachelor's den all of a sudden." Angrily Mary steps in her husband's way who is carrying more clothing across the room. "And will you stop packing while we're discussing this!" She snatches the pile from his arms and holds it tightly to her body as if keeping it hostage until the surprised man in front of her agrees to start negotiations.

He is baffled for a second and then guiltily casts his eyes down. "I'm sorry. I know this must be bothersome for you. And believe me I'm not exactly looking forward to it either. But," and here he places his hands on Mary's arms and meets her eyes with sincere faith in her sympathy, "you do see that I can't just desert him in this difficult situation, don't you? If I did that I would not be the man you deserve. Nor the man you chose, would I?"

Sighing his wife utters the expected answer. "I guess not."

Watson plants a kiss on her cheek. "It's only temporary. And when I'm back, I'll be all yours, right?" And with that he carefully pulls the clothes away from her grip and turns to put them into the suitcase.

Feeling a little outmaneuvered Mary follows him to the bedside. "Why can't we bring him here?" she volunteers not willing to give it all up just yet. "The guest-room's free and you could take care of him without moving out."

"That would ruin the whole point." her husband explains patiently. "The only reason he will not be living with his brother right away is that is supposed to remain in familiar surroundings until he is psychologically stable."

"Ah." The woman seems disappointed for a moment but then comes up with another plan: "In this case, I can just come along. We can reside in your old place together, there's room enough for two. And I could help, I could cook or-"

"I-... don't think that would be such a good idea." Watson inserts cautiously.

Mary is taken aback by the comment. "Why not? We could be together."

"Yes, that would be nice." the doctor starts, squirming as he wonders how to put this diplomatically. "But, you know, you are … not … his most favourite person," he gives a tiny flinch as those words are out and hurries to add "which is insane of course, really, I don't know how anyone could have any other favourite person, but-"

Rolling her eyes his wife interrupts him: "Yeah, it's ok, I know."

Her words sound neutral but her face has gone a little sad and Watson joins her as she sits down on the bed, putting an arm around her shoulder. "I'm sure he'll love you, once he really gets to know you. And any other time I'd bring you just to spite him. But right now that would not be a wise move. He is already barricading, shutting himself off from everyone. If I want to achieve anything I need him to open up. So I have to make that as easy as possible for him. And your presence would complicate things unnecessarily, sorry."

Defeated Mary leans her head to the warm chest by her side. "Don't apologize." she gives in. "You're right. Of course you're right." And closing her eyes she adds: "I just hate to hand you over again, just when I finally had you to myself." The doctor runs a hand through her hair tenderly: "I know. I hate to leave you too. But it's just a few weeks. They'll pass like nothing, you'll see."

And almost believing it himself, he rests sitting on the bed for a while, holding her, before he gets back to the packing again.

TBC


	3. Battles

**_Sorry for the long wait, I really had a hard time writing this chapter. Also, it ended up being a bit too long for my taste. I tried splitting it in two, but I was even less satisfied with that so in the end I left it like that. Next chapters should be up sooner, promise. _**

**_Thanks again to WaterSpirit1 for the kind review. Feedback is a great help.  
_**

**3. Battles**

Reaching the window with wide strides Watson puts the suitcase down and pulls the curtains open. "Well, here we are. You and me, back in Baker Street. Just like the good old times, eh?"

"Yeah, the good old times, me – blind as a bat, you – spoon-feeding me like a nanny – those were the days indeed." Holmes answers, sarcasm dripping from his words like hot tar.

The doctor flinches under the sting of that voice, oozing with contempt and cynicism. During his stay at the hospital Holmes had hardly spoken at all and when he had, it had been in low, apathetic tones, like underwater. Thus Watson had expected depression to be his main foe, not this sudden aggression, – a response that astonishes and disturbs him.

He has a feeling that the coming weeks might turn out to be a lot tougher than he imagined.

* * *

His premonition proves to be sadly accurate as Holmes turns out to be a most difficult charge: Depressed and listless all the time, not reacting to anything Watson tries to reach him with.

And not interested at all in the mobility training that Watson struggles to give him an understanding of as per instructions by Dr. Rhyson, the ophthalmologist.

It is a constant battle, silently fought; no, more like a siege, the doctor settling down at the foot of this dark and gloomy fortress, its walls covered in spikes, a fortification he can't pierce.

At first he thinks indefatigability might be his best weapon, wearing down the defence. It has to give one day, doesn't it?

But to be honest he has never been a man who could count patience among his prime virtues. He tries, but he keeps snapping, breaking so much porcelain on the way. Especially when this object of his leaguer suddenly and unexpectedly dumps hot oil down on him from the turrets, fuelling his anger and frustration. So much spite in there, so much build up hatred towards the world, towards life in general, for treating it the way it does.

But most of the time it just sits there, glaring at Watson without eyes, windows to the soul tightly covered.

By the doctor himself actually, every other day. And he is glad to have one task at least where he feels on safe ground, where he knows what he's doing. A simple medical procedure, unwrapping wounds, wrapping them up again. He does it all the more carefully, dedicated to treat these wounds with all the energy that can't be poured into treating the much deeper ones, the ones that he has as yet failed to unwrap.

* * *

When Lestrade asks for an interrogation opportunity to finally get some facts out of Holmes about what happened at the harbour, Watson immediately suspects that this is going to be another fight. And indeed the detective gets extremely cross at the very suggestion.

"Will you talk to one of the lads then? If you don't want to receive the inspector?" the doctor seeks to negotiate.

The answer is plain but definite: "No."

"But you do want that the ones responsible for-" Watson starts but breaks off awkwardly.

"For what?" comes the immediate sharp retort.

The doctor gives up the fumbling for words, deciding to be blunt at last: "For the loss of your eyesight."

There is a moment's silence as the detective leaves this uncommented, just seems to hunch up tighter, closing himself off even more.

Speaking more gently, the other man approaches him. "Well, you do want them brought to justice, don't you?"  
When there is still no response he leans in closer and puts a hand on his friend's arm, who flinches slightly under the sudden contact. "Don't you want them to be caught?"

The smaller man pulls his arm free, seemingly angry at the unanticipated invasion of his private sphere. "What does it matter? You think that's going to make me happy? Bring back the joy to my life?"

His friend is disconcerted by that reaction and instinctively takes a step back. "Well, not just like that, no ..." he stammers and then catches himself, trying to reason again. "But surely you don't want them to walk? They could do the same to other people."

Again, there is no answer and again he brings his face down to his friend's, placing his hands lightly on the other's shoulders, insisting: "Do you?"

This time Holmes pushes him away harshly: "God dammit, I do not want to speak to them. Why don't you go and have a little chat with Lestrade if you think that's such a worthwhile thing to do. You'd stop pestering me at least then."

Finally loosing his composure the doctor raises his voice: "What is wrong with you? It's a perfectly reasonable request. Why are you acting like this? Don't you want justice to prevail if you can't take an active part in it? If you can't solve the case, noone should – is that it?"

Under this nasty accusation the detective turns nearly as white as the bandage covering his eyes and he sounds enraged and defeated at the same time when he exclaims against the other man: "I can't remember, ok? I fucking can't remember. Not one thing from that damned night." He has gone quieter with each sentence and then lets himself fall back down into the armchair wordlessly.

Carefully Watson walks up to him again. "Is that true?" he asks cautiously.

The detective turns his face at him sharply: "You think I'm making it up?"

"No, no, of course no, sorry." the doctor hurries to say and after a moments silence adds gingerly: "Nothing at all?"

Holmes shakes his head. "I remember I left the house and how I woke up in hospital. In between – nothing." he explains in a dull voice.

"Maybe if you sit down and really concentrate ..." the doctor suggests but is met by instantaneous anger again. "Don't you think I've tried? All this time? Ever since I woke up to find that I can't see? You think I've never bothered to fathom why? Like 'Oh well, it's not that important, nothing interesting happened anyway.'?"

Watson mentally slaps himself for setting the other man off again and starts explaining "No, sure, that's not, I just-" but he is interrupted by Holmes' now lower voice: "I tried, I really, really tried till my head hurt, but there's nothing. There's just nothing."

The exasperation in those words makes Watson hurt under his skin and he feels the dire need to help, to do something to support his friend. "Maybe," he starts awkwardly, "maybe, I can help you. Maybe if you tell me everything and we try to assemble the facts together ..."

It isn't much of a plan and a pretty pathetic one anyhow the doctor admits to himself and Holmes seems to like it even less as his shoulders hunch together again. "I said I can't remember anything. Don't you listen? What good's it gonna do if you sit there and press me and hassle me with psycho talk? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Downcast by the fact that his help is not wanted, even perceived as intrusive, the doctor decides to leave this topic for now. "All right. I'll go and tell Lestrade to shove off then." he declares softly and receiving no reply goes to do just that.

* * *

Sometimes Watson thinks he overstrained himself. He is not qualified for this, he has no training. Holmes obviously would be better off in the hands of a degreed therapist.

And then he pictures Holmes sitting opposite a neat-clad intellectual with tiny spectacles and a sharp thin nose who asks him to talk about his emotions.

He watches the man pull out pen and notebook, pushing his glasses up and questioning: "Now, Mr. Holmes, you are blind. How does that make you feel?"

And the front page of the next day's Times appears in front of his inner eye: "Renowned Psychoanalyst stabbed to death with tobacco pipe – Blind detective shows amazing anatomical accuracy"

And for a moment there he wonders if he really is the only person able to deal with Holmes or if he just likes to think so because ..., well, because he cherishes this close relationship and wants it to be exclusively theirs. But even though he cant tell for sure, he really does not want to risk any experiments.

* * *

And so the battle goes on, everything a contest, even the smallest things. Like getting a stubborn, oppugnant detective to ingest food from time to time.

"I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat. Come on, give it a try."

"What's it then?"

"Windsor soup."

"That's not food, that's just nourishment. I'm not eating that." Holmes' tone is final as he crosses his arms before his chest.

Watson only half-heartedly attempts to conceal the strain in his voice when he reacts to that: "I asked you a dozen times what you'd like and you never gave me anything." He knows he sounds reproachful, well, hell, he feels reproachful. And a good right to it he has too.

But the other man does not seem to think so: "You know I don't eat soup."

He doesn't give an inch and the doctor is too tired to argue, so he switches to pleading: "A few spoonsful, ok? Just to keep you from keeling over."

A calculating twitch runs round the detective's lips. "I'll need a whiskey to help it down then."

It is the only thing he ever asks for and Watson keeps denying it: Alcohol, drugs, any kind of narcotic substance. He gets painkillers of course, but that is that. However the doctor feels that he might be close to some kind of small breakthrough just now, a little step in the right direction and he doesn't want to ruin that.

"Oh, all right." he gives in and before that mirthless grin fully conquers his friend's face he adds: "You start on the soup and I'll go get the bottle."

The doctor is pleasantly surprised when, upon his returning, he finds Holmes spooning away if not enthusiastically then at least with a steady routine.

"This is positively awful." the detective states dryly without turning his head from the soup.

Watson grins and pours the whiskey. "You know what they say, the unsavoury food is what makes you big and strong."

This earns him a cynical snort from the other man: "Yeah, growing young lad like me can do with all the calories he can get. Especially the ones in liquid form. Where's that whiskey?"

"Won't you eat up first?" the doctor asks smirking.

Now his friend faces him:"Stop treating me like a toddler this second and I might just keep my temper." he states in a low voice that carries just the hint of a serious threat, before he turns back on his supper.

The other man takes it lightly. „Only joking." he laughs, putting the glass down on the table ...

... unfortunately right in the path of a forearm that – on its way to refill the spoon – collides with the drink, thus leaving half of it on the floor and most of the other half in the detective's lap.

Holmes breathes deeply, stopping in mid-motion, and remains unmoving, his right arm in the air, spoon wavering just over the rim of the half-full plate. Slowly and without a word he places the cutlery down on the table very carefully, his wrist settling down in a puddle of alcohol.

„Ah, don't worry." the doctor hastens to appease in a an altogether too cheerfully tone. „We'll work on that. The mobility and orientation training, you know. There's loads of tricks. We'll practice and soon you'll be doing fine, really."

He didn't miss Holmes' lips forming an ever tighter and straighter line in the course of that little speech, the fingers on the table coiling into a fist, and so it is not unexpected when the smaller man jumps to his feet growling. „I don't give a damn about your stupid tricks and exercises. I'm not your lap-dog that you can dress up in a pink tutu and teach to jump through a hoop on fire or play a cute tiny piano. Why don't you go and find some other idiot to experiment on?"

But although it is no news to him that Holmes shows no interest in the program Watson feels disheartened. Just when he thought his friend had finally seen some reason, decided to work on his situation.

„Surely you don't think this is for me." he starts in slightly hurt tones. „I know you know it is in your own best interest and noone elses. We're doing this for you."

„Well I don't care for this gracious treatment." the other man hisses. „I don't want any of this. Stop harrassing me about it."

Watson is irked. You can't keep taking behaviour like that all the time, even from someone you care for and who you're trying to help. No, actually, in Holmes' own best interest, this self-destructive conduction should not be tolerated. And right now, he feels pushed very close to the edge of goodwill and forbearance.

„If it is really my interests you care for, get me that whiskey-bottle and grant the two of us some privacy. That's what you can do for me."

And that is over the edge …

„God damnit! I'm doing everything for you. I'm trying to help. I move in here, I leave my wife home alone, I sacrifice my days – can't you give me something at least? Just a little cooperation? I'm neglecting everything else for you!"

Holmes flushes with anger under that shouted demand and yells back vigorously: "Well I never bloody asked you to!"

The room turns very silent, those last syllables still vibrating in the air, refusing to let peace settle in.

Shivering with temper Holmes tries to calm himself down enough to listen for any kind of reaction on the doctor's part. There isn't much, just low-scale breathing and then the faintest hint of footsteps as the latter very slowly turns around and walks to the door and then only the soft click as the door is shut behind his retreating back.

Then nothing.

He is alone.

The minutes stretch like syrup and the detective never moves from his place by the window where he has retreated to, gripping the sill forcefully as if it steadied him, helped him to keep standing upright. He hadn't realized how cramp-tense his fingers had clutched the wood until the door opens again quietly and the muscles finally relax, sending short spasm up his wrists.

For a little while Watson watches that dark figure, looking small hunched up by the window, still turning its back on him.

So silent.

And yet, there is the simmering promise that any second now it is going to spit biting remarks at him or erupt again in uncontrolled irascibility.

Well, he is ready for it. It did him good to let the cold wind blow through his his head for a while, trying to remember why he's here, why he is putting up with this. He has absolutely no idea what to do or say now, but he refuses to give up. Wordlessly he walks up to his friend and joins him at the window.

Some moments pass with neither of them speaking, but suddenly, surprisingly and without tearing his face away from the the window it is Holmes who breaks the silence: "You're not leaving, are you?"

The words are meant to sound neutral, that intention is clear, but they still carry a trace of anxiety and that makes them like soothing balm to the doctor's ears.

This certainly isn't happy or optimistic or at peace with the world, but it is a wonderful change from the spiteful, monotone, depressed and cynical that covered the whole range of Holmes' emotional overtones during the last weeks. "No." Watson answers in an equally low voice. "No, I'm not."

And that is it, no more conversation for now, but Watson feels a warm wave of relieve wash over him.

He has a feeling that things will get better from here.

**TBC**


	4. Memories

**All right,chapter length doesn't much differ from the last one. Maybe I can try and keep that up.**

**Big hugs to _StarsOutlineOurStory_ and _Rock is Freedom_ for taking the time to review the last chapter. You guys made me happy. :-D**

**4. Memories  
**

A fond smile wriggles its way up to Watson's lips when notes arising from a violin fall onto his ears. Holmes is in his chamber, alone, but the music he elicits from the instrument is still audible in the room next door.

He has been playing a lot lately, obviously drawing comfort from an ability he still possesses, a talent he can literally admonish blindly. But they have been doleful melodies most of the time, pieces, that, being put into the strings with an exceptional depth of feeling, have quenched the doctor's heart more then once.

Even Mrs. Hudson had been touched. "It's beautiful, but it sounds so sad." she had explained when Watson, upon finding her standing listening in the stairway late at night, had asked if she minded the playing, hoping he could convince her to endure it for now, but that had not been necessary. Mrs. Hudson's kind heart had not intended to shut her late-night-sessioning lodger up, but she had seemed affected and a little weary.

However the sounds that come through the wall now, are merry and down-to-earth. A light shanty, even if the same passion cannot be felt behind these strokes. They seem hesitant, like someone trying out a new part, but soon gather speed.

Watson recognizes the ditty, it is one Holmes used to play from time to time when they were still living together. On those cosy evenings when no one felt like going out but still like having a bit of fun. And they got a little drunk and talked lots of nonsense and started to do the most idiotic things like rehearsing silly dance numbers or building devices to do household chores for them (which never worked of course) or, once, testing how far one could lean out of the window without topping over – that one had nearly ended up in a fatal accident – and sooner or later cooking up the most awful stew from whatever left-overs were to be found in their lodgings.

And the doctor remembers exactly when he heard that specific tune for the last time, because it is an especially dear memory of his. The last time Holmes had played this very song had been the time when he had suddenly stopped playing abruptly and kissed him square on the mouth.

And then had nearly burst with laughter at Watson's own shocked and probably rather silly expression.

"I should move out soon. You are a horrible influence on me." the doctor had declared jokingly.

And Holmes, laughing, but still seeming serious had only said "Don't."

Smiling resignedly at the man in front of him Watson had shaken his head: "You know I couldn't leave you." It was true, there was something irresistible about that seductive smile.

And Holmes had grinned at him, saying: "I need you you know. To have at least something nice to look at in this dump." He'd gestured at the room, which was, truly, a complete pigpen.

"All right. But only looking, no touching." the other man had jested and Holmes had looked at him, dark eyes glimmering with mischief when he answered "Oh, well, alright then" giving him a penetrating stare. Watson had squirmed under the intense gaze and sighed: "Ah, it's no good, with those eyes of yours you could grope me up and down from a five meter distance."

Holmes had just grinned and put a contemplating finger to his lips.

As in situations like this it was often the case, Watson had felt his legs go soft and he had said something stupid, like in this very instance "I like your eyes." which had made him want to slap himself seconds after saying it, his throat tight, and he had actually been really relieved, when a knock at the door had broken the spell and Clarky had stumbled in all wound up and out of breath spilling: "I'm sorry to disturb you at this time of the night, but you said to alert you immediately when we found the body and I think you should really have a look at this one …"

A melancholic look creeps across the doctor's face when the last notes die down, but he jumps up, when only seconds later, there comes a loud thump like something being smashed and without thinking he runs to the neighbouring room. He halts in the door frame when he sees Holmes standing at the table, shaking, the violin in pieces half on the floor, half on the desk top.

Before he can think of anything to say, Holmes turns to face him, the barely restricted temper visible in his body language. "What?" he screams accusingly, defensively.

"I, um." the doctor stammers. "I thought I heard a noise, wanted to check on you." "Why do you have to run after me whenever you hear something like a nursery teacher? Can't you just fucking leave me alone for a while?" The detective's voice is strained with emotion and Watson feels sick and guilty for intruding upon this moment of personal pain and break-down of self-control. "Yeah, right, sorry. I'm out." he mumbles and pulls the door close softly behind him, a helpless lump building up in his throat as he withdraws to his own room.

* * *

Holmes' steps are hesitant when he joins Watson at the breakfast table the next morning, pale face suggesting that the night has seen little sleep. Without sitting down he starts speaking to the empty air: „Sorry about yesterday." He sounds contrite.

"That's ok. No need to apologize." his friend replies automatically. The detective winces. "Come on, give me a chance to act like an ass and be treated like someone who acts like an ass. All this handling with kid-gloves makes me feel like an invalid." This induces the doctor to give a more detailed response: "But really. I did not take offence, so no need to apologize. I didn't think you're being mean because your inconsiderate or don't appreciate my concern or something like that, but that you were having a tough time."

"Still, it wasn't right to yell at you like that." the other insists. Watson shrugs and before he remembers that this passes for no reaction to someone who can't perceive the gesture, Holmes' voice already carries a hint of hurt when he adds: "Please don't tell me you pity me so much that nothing I say or do can affect you anymore."

This of course is not the message the doctor wanted to convey. "No, ok, you're right. I didn't like being yelled at, but I understand why you did it, so, apology accepted."

"Well, thanks." the detective replies and, feeling around for a chair and pulling it up, he only now sits down at the table, carefully avoiding to brush his sleeves over the board.

"Ham and egg, right in front of you." Watson prompts routinely. "I put the mug far enough from the fork, so you have to make an effort if you want to knock it over while picking up the cutlery." Holmes wordlessly takes the fork and starts to shovel the breakfast into his mouth rather accurately. Suddenly he sighs, putting the fork down. "You know what I regret most?"

"Breaking the violin." Watson answers without doubt.

"Hm, yes. Do you think it's beyond repair?" The doctor pulls a face. "'fraid so. But we can get you a new one."

Resting his chin in one hand, Holmes slowly shakes his head: "I don't think my finances are too rosy at the moment."

Watson doesn't even look up from his eggs: "That's alright, I can get it for you."

"You don't have to." Holmes answers a little stiffly.

"I know I don't have to, I'd like to." his friend counters slightly surprised, but realizes that the talk is taking a bumpy direction when the answer to that is openly deprecative.

"Well I wish you wouldn't."

Watson feels irritated. This would not have been a problem between them just two months ago. But a lot of things have changed since then, there's no denying that, so the doctor takes the time to justify his offer: "Look, it's not like a hand-out or something. It's a gift, among friends, ok? Because it's important to you."

"Oh is it?" There is something threatening in that altogether too polite question but Watson misses the subtle warning signs: "Sure it's…" he stops, trying not to choose the wrong words, but he is already too far down that road. "It's something you can do, easily, I mean, like your … condition … doesn't hinder you with that …"

The way Holmes' jaw has tightened throughout his pathetic address only confirms what he already knows, that he has screwed up again, and right when Holmes was pulling himself together as well. Why can't he be blessed with some eloquence at times like this?

"And that's great, isn't it?" he adds with forced cheerfulness, but of course that saves nothing and he catches himself hunching in the armchair when Holmes' answering words hit him like projectiles flying across the breakfast table: "Ooh, yeah, that's great. I have a wonderful musical career in front of me, spending the rest of my life in a filthy gutter of my choice, trying to stop the street urchins from nicking my pennies. That's so great, if I wasn't sitting down already I would have to find a stool immediately or my poor heart couldn't take the excitement."

Watson sags, defeated. „I'm sorry, what can I say? Sorry, maybe, maybe you should just get used to me saying stupid things, cause I don't seem to be able to avoid it. Maybe you can just think 'Oh, its stupid Watson again, once more saying something really stupid, but it shouldn't affect me, because he's just to stupid to phrase even one tiny little thought right.'"

He looks up at his friend ruefully, instantly feeling rejected by the blank white bandage that covers his eyes, allowing him no guess as to the other's reaction. As so often these days he feels the need to touch him, to make up for that closed door of the bandage, that shuts him out, puts distance between them. Gingerly he puts his hand on Holmes' arm. "Maybe?" he asks hopefully.

Holmes sighs and pulls away from the touch. "It's not you saying stupid things. I mean, you don't say stupid things like 'Oh, look, now you can't even speak properly anymore', or 'Sheesh, now your bladder control has gone as well.' Now that'd be stupid and it wouldn't affect me, because it's just not true and you certainly don't believe it, even if by mental disability you'd end up saying stupid things like that. What's bad is not what you are actually saying, but what it tells about what you are really thinking and well, you're not exactly phrasing that wrong. It is what you are thinking indeed."

Watson doesn't know what to say to that, he never thought about it, but Holmes is probably right and he feels even worse now, realizing this.

Meanwhile the detective has started to squeeze his hands unconsciously as he goes on. "And I try, I really do try to live with that but it's a strain, it's tough, because that is not how I am imagining myself and I don't think I can get used to the idea."

"I'm sorry." the other man states with honest emotion.

"And I wish you'd stop apologizing to me all the time. It is as if that is all you have to say to me these days, it's horrible. And then I am only left with either getting angry or I might just start crying and I'd rather jump from the tower bridge before that happens."

"Maybe it would help you." the doctor ventures carefully. "You know, letting your emotions out."

Holmes turns to his friend and somehow the latter knows exactly what kind of look he's giving him now. "The day you find me sitting here, crying with self-pity, shoot me. Please. It'll be mercy."

"Now come on …" Watson is appalled, but the detective seems even more shocked at that reaction: "You can't be serious. I mean, I thought, I thought I was trying to find a way of going on with my life in a dignified way, not adjusting myself to the fact that I am now a miserable cripple and I shouldn't aspire to anything else anymore. Because if that is the aim of this exercise then please let me choose suicide before I really start thinking that this might be an existence worth living."

"No, of course it's not, it's …" Watson sighs, lost for words again.

And trying to stop his frantic searching for the right turn of phrase he just says what comes to his mind. "I love you, you know."

His friend nods, choking an ironic chortle: "Yes, I suspected as much when you decided to dedicate weeks of your life to taking care of me."

The doctor is not unsettled: "And I didn't do that out of pity. I did it because I thought that in this phase of your life you could do with a friend to lean on. Because it is a transition phase, it's difficult, but it will pass. And then things will be better. You will find the right way to be. And I refuse to loose you on the way there."

"What's it gonna be?" Holmes asks, for once serious, even seeking hope.

Watson remains silent. If he is honest, he doesn't know himself, he too can't image what a blind Sherlock Holmes is going to be like. He hadn't even given it much thought. Just generally assumed that things would turn out right somehow. And now it isn't that easy. But that doesn't mean the whole endeavour will fail. Because it won't, he knows it. It is just a difficult phase. But they will get through it. Together. "I don't really know, to be honest. But it will be."

Holmes gives a little weary sigh that makes the doctor feel the need to lighten up the atmosphere: "There are a lot of people who are blind and live worthwhile lives. Hey, think of that Greek philosopher you brother likes so much, what was his name?"

After a pause the detective's reply comes sceptical: "Do you mean Diogenes?"

"Yeah, right, that guy."

Now the retort is dry and plainly dismissive: "He wasn't blind."

"No?"

"No. And he lived in a ton."

"Did he?"

"I think so."

Watson wrinkles his nose:"Well, don't do that."

When his friend shows just inanition after that remark he goes back to being more serious: "We're going to see this through together, ok? I make mistakes, you make mistakes, we both say sorry a lot, but we will stand strong, and we will survive, stronger than ever. Because I was serious when I said I refuse to loose you."

Holmes swallows. "I know." he says and fixing his face right vis a vis the friend's he adds, a little pained. "I wish I could see you."

Gently, Watson takes the other's hands and puts them to his face. "Here."

The fingers have barely touched the skin when Holmes lets them fall back down by his side, shaking his head and asking in shocked tones: "When did you grow that beard?"

The doctor is disturbed by the amount of consternation in these words. "I might have neglected the shaving these last days. I didn't think anyone would mind. It's not like I'm going out much."

"That's scary." Homes mumbles, face indeed white now. "You change like that and I don't even notice. That's, … that's so disconcerting. There were times when nothing would get past me and now you could grow a beard 40 inches long and wind wild flowers in it and I wouldn't suspect anything."

"Ah, the flowers wouldn't go past you." the other man disagrees with a grin. "That nose of yours is a frighteningly accurate thing."

TBC


	5. Accidents

_**Hey, sorry for the long wait, the next chapter should be up faster and it has Irene in it. :) I really like her, she should find herself some other love interest ...**_

_**'Fail the real squid' and 'ladykale1985': Thank you so much for taking the time to review. Reviews are great, they keep me going.**_

**5. Accidents**

Watson is out. After a good half an hour of argument Holmes finally managed to persuade his friend to go for a walk and now the detective is itching to test his skills in 'Doing things without help'.

He hates to try anything along those lines when his friend is present. Firstly he knows the doctor can't bear to watch without lending a helping hand or at least throw some well-meaning remarks at him and that is just what he is trying to do without.

But to be honest the main reason is that he hates the very idea of being observed when he is insecure. Somehow that feels like turning it into a public exercise, making a spectacle out of himself and not that he would ever accuse Watson of seeing it like that but that's beside the point. The point is … well, he knows he won't look too elegant trying for the first time, really trying that is, and he knows for that very reason that he will not really try, never take a leap out of safety while he is being watched. It would be too humiliating.

It is just no safe sphere to practice in, no matter how much affection the spectator might hold for him.

He remembers that sense of self-righteous arrogance that used to make him comfortable in all kinds of situations, nothing really intimidated him, ever. And that was because he was totally sure of himself, he might not have always known what he was doing at the exact moment he was doing it, but he had boundless confidence in the sharp and flawless workings of his mind, it would never really let him down, no worries.

Well that hasn't changed, but he has had to learn the hard way that intellect isn't everything. And loosing control over your own body has turned out to be highly unsettling. Suddenly he has become acquainted with the fear of embarrassment, the fear of error, misstep, disgrace.

It is a totally new experience and what a slippery field the world has suddenly become, making him for the first time in years uncertain, unconfident and diffident.

But now he is on his own and eager to make his first attempt at „Living on your own".

'Alright.' he thinks to himself, 'Something easy. Get yourself a glass of water. You can do it. It's not that hard.'

He knows the room in and out, his practically photographic memory serves him well. And Watson has spent many hours tidying the place up, so that he can rely on everything being in its proper place. Slowly he walks over to the cupboard, opens the shelf with the glasses and gets one out. 'Great. That was easy. Now, water.'

He makes his way to the sink slowly, concentrating on picturing the room in his mind so he doesn't have to feel around all the time, looking like an idiot. Forcing himself to keep his arms hanging relaxed by his side he judges the distance to the sink and only when he is certain that he stands right before it, takes his hands up and feels for the tap. A little further, but that was to be expected, he'd been afraid of bumping into the sink. Next time he'd trust his judgement more.

Estimating when the glass is full proves to be more difficult. It runs over, but that's no big deal, he'll get accustomed to that.

He puts the glass to his lips to drink enough off, so he will be able to carry the glass over to his seat without spilling anything. Feeling just a little bit proud that he has indeed managed a menial task like getting a glass of water for himself, he turns to walk over to the chair when his foot suddenly gets caught by some obstacle and he falls flat on his face.

The glass smashes on the floor, shards boring themselves forcefully right into his hand. He hisses at the sharp pain that runs through his right palm and fingers and uses his left hand to feel around for the damned object that caused his fall. The umbrella stand. That stupid thing, he never liked it. 'Ok, that's no tragedy, it's alright.' he calms himself. 'Get up and wash your hand.'

He stumbles back to the sink, much less graceful then before and tries to pick the shards from his flesh, holding the pulsating hand under the cold running water for a while. What now? Ointment should be good. 'Ok, you can do this, don't panic, where did we position the med kit? Ah, yes, third shelf on the big cabinet.'

He walks over, rummaging blindly through the shelf with his left hand while clenching the other one into a fist, to keep the blood from running, but he still feels it dripping through his fingers. 'Damn it where is that stupid med kit?' He can tell that his nerves are beginning to give under the strain and resists the urge to just throw the whole content of the shelf to the floor in frustration. Finally his searching fingers make out the form of the little leather case that holds the med kit.

He sits down with the case in his lap and opens it to feel around for the ointment but there are just so many cream-pots in there. Exasperated he bangs the table board with his left hand while his right hand feels clammy with blood again. 'Alright, calm down', he tells himself. 'You can do this, you are able to deal with this. What does the ointment look like? You know you remember.'

He takes a deep breath and concentrates, trying to call up the image from his memory. 'Alright. Now find the pot that matches the size and form.' He feels into the case again and brings up one container, screws it open and slowly brings it up to his nose. 'Gah, no! Poison hemlock. Why do we even have that in our med kit? Must have been me putting it there. Good thing Watson didn't find it. Ok, one more try.' He pulls up the next container and gives it a tentative sniff. Iodine, zinc, camomile, – that seems to be it. 'Good. See? That was easy. You can do it. All good.'

He smears a good helping of ointment into the bleeding wound, which incidentally bites like hell, and then wraps a bandage around it rather loosely, since firmer pressure on his tender skin hurts more than he likes to bear. 'Ok. That was that. What next?' Oh, he absolutely should clean the shards away before he walks into them again. Or falls into them again. Broom and dustpan, where might those be?

He tries the lower cupboard and yelps, pulling back in disgust when his fingers touch something hairy inside the board. 'Put your hand back in there.' he commands himself angrily and overcoming himself he gingerly does exactly that, repulsion rising in his throat and holds his breath, dreading what his questing fingers might meet there. When by sheer luck his grip curls around the broom and shovel at the first tentative try he pulls the items out hastily and smashes the door shut.

So, where did the glass break? He feels around on the floor, anxious that he might just cut himself again and feels the tears of frustration rise all the way to his eyes now as he realizes what a picture he must give: Down on hands and knees, helplessly fondling around the floor for a broken glass. And how should he be ever sure that he cleans all the shards away and won't walk right into the them barefooted the next day? He can't. That's how it is, he needs people to clean up the mess he makes trying to execute the simple exercise of getting a glass of water for himself. And where are those damn shards? He thumps the floor and gives a short cry when a wave of pain runs through his bandaged hand.

"Hey, Mrs. Hudson placed these boots at my door, but they certainly aren't mine. Are they by any chance …Oh, shit, what happened?" Watson who has just walked in, lets the boots he was carrying fall to the floor and rushes to his friend's side. "Here, let me do this." he says, taking the broom and dustpan from Holmes' unresisting hands. "What happened?" he asks worriedly.

Holmes gets up from the floor. "I wanted to get myself a glass of water but I stumbled and broke it." he admits contritely. "Why didn't you ask Mrs. Hudson to help you? She can do that for you." Watson wonders, dumping the glass shards into the waste basket. "Well, I was under the impression that I would be able to do that for myself." Holmes answers, voice pressed.

"Be more careful then. You could have cut yourself." The doctor's gaze falls onto his friend's bandaged right. "What happened to your hand?"

Holmes sighs. "I cut myself." he declares resignedly.

"Let me see this." Watson grabs the hand and, frowning at the loosely bound and slightly blood-soaked bandage, he unwraps the wound again.

"Ow. Hey, I just dressed that." the smaller man complains, grimacing at the fire that runs through his nerves again. The doctor doesn't react to his protest, but takes a critical look at the cream-smeared wound. "Ugh, that's nasty. You'll need stitches if you want to keep the use of your fingers."

Holmes turns his face away from the friend and the words he spews sound bitter and withered: "I've lost the use of my whole person, what difference should the fingers make …"

Not indulging the self-affliction Watson gives him an annoyed look and answers in a slightly impertinent tone. "Maybe you'd like to be able to hold a glass of water for yourself."

Defeated Holmes turns his head away, lips pressed tightly together. Seeing his friend's distress Watson tenderly takes the wounded hand back in his, speaking more sympathetically now: "Come on, let me clean you up and stitch this, ok?" Holmes nods wordlessly and allows himself be led to the sink, leaving his hand to the doctor who carefully cleanses the wound of the ointment and then lets himself be led back to a chair. And all the time he remains muted and passive as if he had no will of his own.

"Wait a sec, I'll get my med bag." Watson hurries off and returns to find Holmes still unmoving, with that same expressionless face, head slightly downcast.

He sighs and grabs the hand that lies on the table exactly where he had positioned it and blinks at it through his magnifying specs. "Ah, thought so, there are quite a few glass splinters left in there." And he picks the tweezers from his bag. "This might hurt a little." he warns and starts pulling the tiny shards from the mangled flesh. Still, there is no reaction from the detective, only his hand twitching ever so slightly in the doctor's experienced grip when the tweezers hit a sensitive point.

"Right. That should be all." Watson declares shortly after, putting the tweezers away, cleaning the wound with disinfectant and then reaching for the needle. Finally he wraps a fresh bandage round the newly stitched hand and packs his med kit away. "There you are. All good now."

Holmes pulls the bandaged hand away, cradling it in the other and mumbles "Thank you."

"You're welcome." the doctor answers smiling. "Just try not to disable any more parts of your body today, ok?" he adds jokingly.

The carelessly uttered teasing finally throws Holmes out of his apathy. "Do you think I like to?" he snarls defensively.

Hearing the sudden change makes Watson regret his tactless choice of phrase. "I am sorry. That was a stupid thing to say." he starts, but the detective isn't even listening.

"You think I'm doing this on purpose? Because I enjoy the attention? Eh? Ooh, why not break my legs beyond any chance of healing the next time. Then you could carry me around all day long, now that would be super!" he yells, anger turning into bitterness and then frustration.

His shoulders sag as his irate demeanour falls in on itself and Watson slowly approaches him, placing both hands on his friend's upper arms that are shaking with emotion. "I am sorry." he whispers. "I'm a total ass. I didn't think at all. Sorry."

"I just feel so useless." his friend replies, voice shaking. "I thought I could do this, but maybe I can't after all. I … I don't want to go on. Not if it's going to be a constant fight, and I keep loosing. I don't want to go on like this." Watson hugs him into a tight embrace. "I know." he says. "I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do. I'm sorry." And he leans in on the embrace himself, feeling quite helpless on his own accord.

Holmes breathes deeply and pulls away from his friend. "Would you mind? I think I'd like to be alone for a while." he ventures, pulling himself together. "Yeah, sure." the other man accepts against his own wishes. "I'll be next door, if you need anything."

"Ya, thanks." Holmes answers and slowly and deliberately makes his way to his bedroom, walking right into the spare pair of boots that has been left on the floor and, stumbling, catches himself with a little jump and then rests standing immobile for a second.

"Oh, damn, that was me. I dropped the boots when I came in, sorry, I … I'm sorry." Watson calls out at his friend, feeling like the king of clumsy idiots. He watches as Holmes' good hand is curled into a tight fist by his side and then the detective keeps walking to the door wordlessly, fumbling for the doorknob for a second and then leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Following his retreating form with his eyes Watson bites his lower lip and then, sighing, falls onto the sofa.

**TBC**


	6. Visitors

**Ok, somehow I keep saying that chapters will be uploaded soon and then it always takes longer than I expected, so I won't say that any more.**

**This one is shorter again, but it is here. Hope you'll enjoy.**

**My gratitude goes to ladykale1985, ****Rock is Freedom and ****reflekshun for their encouragement. You guys are great!**

**6. Visitors**

The woman has slipped up the stairs unnoticed. Moving noiselessly is child's play to her and she has made a habit of getting into places she isn't supposed to get into without asking permission; actually so much, she has practically forgotten that there is any other way to do it.

Now she leans in the frame of a door carelessly left open and takes her time to spy out the room without announcing her presence. The sight that greets her sqeezes her heart with an iron gauntlet and at the same time sends a familiar flutter of nervous joy through her body.

She watches a wiry man sitting in an armchair, his fingers wandering the pages of a book, lips pressed together tightly in concentration. Suddenly his hand reaches for the nearby table that holds a plate with pastry, groping around in a cautious manner that suggests that he is wary of accidents.

'Accidents that are likely to happen if people care more for decoration than for household security' the woman thinks to herself as she turns her attention to the vase filled with strawflowers that has been positioned dangerously close to the edge of the table.

Instinct taking over she leaps towards the scene before his arm hits the porcelain her lips forming the "Ooh, careful!" while simultaneously she already catches the vase in mid-fall, her graceful fingers brushing his. And her heart clenches as she sees the dark-haired man go all rigid at the sound of her voice, face hardening and turning hostile.

"I got it." she ventures meekly, holding the vase out to him, her words already admitting defeat. The battle is lost ere she even started.

"What are you doing here?" Holmes asks a little suspicious and all the more angry.

"I heard about your accident and I thought-"

"Get out!" he hisses and there is no mistaking his open animosity.

"Please, Sherlock,", the woman starts in low and pleading tones, "give me a chance to explain."

But he has turned away from her, shouting in the direction of the corridor: "Watson!" And of course there he is immediately, his loyal dog, appearing in the door-frame like summoned by a powerful incantation. 'He was probably standing there in the shadow all the while, watching and listening.' Irene thinks bitterly.

"Something the matter?" the doctor asks, seemingly innocent, but Irene can tell from the accusing look he's giving her that he thinks there is something the matter alright and that she is the cause of it undoubtedly.

Unwilling to give up just like that she opens her mouth but is overtaken by Holmes' own words: "Yes. Miss Adler wishes to leave. Why don't you show her out?" Barely held back temper is conveyed by his strained voice and the equally strained muscles, his knuckles turning whiter by the second.

"Sherlock, please give me five minutes. Don't send me away like that." Irene realizes that she is pleading and hates herself for being pathetic, but arrogance won't get her anywhere, that's for sure. However neither does begging, it turns out, when Holmes drops his act of self-control.

"Get her out of here!" he shouts and Watson puts a hand on her shoulder and with a fierce grip propelles her out into the corridor and down the stairs.

"Let go of me, I know the way out." the woman demands half-way down the stairs and Watson is amazed to see her eyes shimmer wet.

His look grows a little softer, but his voice stays coldly distant: "Don't take it too much to heart. He doesn't really tolerate anyone around him much these days."

"He puts up with you." she sniffs.

"Yes, well, most of the time. And then of course I'm not an attractive, smart criminal he is stricken with and who has bested him more than once when he was in great shape and now comes to witness him in his worst state."

"You make it sound as if I came here to mock him." she spits seriously offended.

The doctor raises an eyebrow at her: "Why _did_ you come?"

"I know you don't like me." The mumbled words are soft, but her eyes shine defiantly.

"I won't deny that you are not exactly my favourite."

Watson still gives her that challenging look and the woman sighs, turning her face away from him. "I just had to come. When I heard about the accident, I had to come and see him. I … I suspected that he probably would not like to see me- um, to have me here I mean, but there was no way I could not come. I really love him. I always will." At last she looks up to meet the doctor's eyes, but the latter's face is without any sign of sympathy. "You don't believe me." she states.

"Well, do forgive me, Miss Adler, if I seem a little sceptical. But you must admit it's quite hard to believe. The way you keep humiliating him and showing him up."

Maroon locks are shaken with a fatalistic shrug: "It's the only way to get his attention. And that is all I can ever aspire to with him. Some kind of intrigued fascination, as long as I'm another puzzle, as long as I provide a challenge to his intellect. Whenever I try to slow down, to let him catch up with me and conquer me, he isn't interested any more. To him I'm like the classic archenemy. You might develop some sort of obsession with him, but you wouldn't necessarily want to settle down with them."

"I don't think Holmes would settle down with anyone." the doctor interjects.

"He lives with you." comes the retort without a second's hesitation.

"Well, that hardly counts, does it?"

The blue-robed lady gives him a inquiring look and he hurries to adject: "Anyway, it's only temporary. Until he gets along without my help. I live with my wife now, you know."

"Ah, ja. Mary, wasn't it? I take it Sherlock doesn't like her?"

"I wouldn't put it like that."

"Like what then?"

Watsom squirms. "She isn't his favourite, I'll admit that, but I'm sure, with time-"

"I've had dozens." Irene interrupts him, eyes clouding over a little.

"What?" the doctor is perplexed.

"Dozens.", the woman repeats with renewed force, "I've had dozens of husbands and he never cared."

Watson sighs. "Miss Adler, if you are serious about what you profess to be honest feelings – and I won't conceal that I feel hard-pressed to believe you – I'd advise you to give him time to get his feet on the ground before you approach him again. At the moment he is not in the condition to discuss romantic relationships, least of all with someone as preposterous as yourself."

"Save your wrath, doctor." Irene's voice has become soft and sad. "I don't think I'll be coming back. I can't keep running all my life. Without the chase I'm nothing to him and he won't be chasing me anymore. Not with his … affliction."

* * *

Clarky comes by later that day, he has made a routine of inquiring after Holmes once a week at least and now looks at the doctor curiously: "He still can't remember then?"

"No." Watson sighs, shaking his head tiredly. It is not a good subject. One that is still liable to cause instant pulling of the bridges, Holmes turning to marble and – when he keeps digging – lashing out. He suspects that this is because the detective is angry at himself for being unable to recall anything.

The officer interrupts his train of thought: "Too bad. We are going to have that guy on trial on wednesday. Might have been helpful if he could've testified in the hearing."

xxx

"There's going to be a hearing on wednesday." the doctor announces carefully to Holmes when they have finished dinner and Mrs. Hudson has taken the dishes away. "This man they found lying next to you at the site of the accident, he seems to finally be fit for interrogation. They asked if you wanted to be heard in the proceedings ..." He breaks off.

"Nah, that'd be just embarrassing." the detective chips in and then taps his lips with his curled up fingers before he goes on more contemplatively. "Damn, if there is no one to testify against him he is bound to lie. Still, it is the one source of information I got, I'll have to make something of his testimony."

Watson is surprised. "You want to attend then?"

The detective's head, that had sunken in pondering, shoots up again. "Of course. Hell, my first chance to find out a little more about what happened that night, you think I'd pass that by? How can you even ask?" Watson squirms a little under the incredulous tone.

"Just, you know, you said, you don't want to go out, meet people that are going to ask a lot of stupid questions ..." his voice trails off again.

Holmes just shrugs. "Yeah, true, I sure as hell won't go undisguised. You got to help me with that dosser-outfit."

Somehow that plan doesn't seem very neat to Watson. "You don't think it'd be suspicious if I show up in the company of some street roamer?" he asks sceptically and then adds hurriedly: "And don't even think of dressing me up as well."

This suggestion seems to amuse the other man. "Hah, no, you'd never pull off." he grins. "The very idea ..." And apparently forming a mental image and examining it from all angles, the detective starts to chuckle to himself. "Anyway," he starts, returning to the charge, "it's still the best costume. No one really bothers to take a close look in case it's gonna throw them off their dinner and a dishevelled dressing code means you can hide under lots of wide clothing."

"Hm." Watson still isn't satisfied. "But this guy, the one that's on trial, don't you think it would be a better idea to let him know that you're not dead but very much alive present? He doesn't know you lost your memory. It could throw him, make him insecure, he'd be unprepared and he could let the truth slip more often than he'd like. Would be a good bluff."

Holmes looks uncomfortable. "I'd really rather just sit safe and tight and get some information. And when I've got it, then I'll decide how to go on from there. I don't want to be in for surprises. Might just pull the rug out from under _my _feet. No, I prefer to fight from safe ground."

And with that it is settled.

But for some reason he can't even explain to himself, Watson feels an eerie nervousness start working its way through his body, climbing up from the toes, at the prospect of visiting court tomorrow.

TBC


	7. Recollections

**So this turned out really long again, compensation for the last chapter. ;)**

**Warning: There will be some character abuse in this one, so if you don't like to see Holmes suffer you can skip the flashbacks, they are in italics.**

**To reflekshun and Rock is Freedom: Thanks for staying with me. I appreciate your comments.  
**

**7. Recollections**

„Harold Thatcher, on the night of March 15th, 2.50 am, the police found you lying wounded under the rubble of some kind of weapon-construction, that had collapsed right on top of you. What were you doing at this site of accident at that time of night?"

"Why, I was just walking at the harbour, sir, when I saw that strange construction. I got curious so I went closer to have a better look at it, but before I could make anything of that thing, it came tumbling down on me."

Watson watches the interrogation with a skeptical streak around his lips. He didn't notice how his friend turned white when the man started to speak.

But that voice reaches right into Holmes' brain with crude dirty hands, pulling up scenes from that fateful night, gooey, slimy and still bodywarm, and chucked them on the table in front of him with a sardonic grin, from where they seeped right through the bandage and slammed bang into his consciousness, rising in front of his inner eye as if someone had finally rewound the old monitoring-tape to the right spot and had pressed the play button that very moment.

"_I won't see anything." "That's right, you won't."_

Instinctively he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then grabs Watson's sleeve and tugs at it mechanically. "Hm?" Watson turns and noticing the pale complexion asks: "Something wrong?"

"It's him." Holmes whispers. "That one. He cut me."

Alerted the doctor's eyes narrow. "You sure?"

"Absolutely. It's definitely him." Holmes answers with certainty. The doctor's gaze wanders back to the wiry man, standing in the dock, squirming and sweating and he feels a bitter wave rise in his stomach making him want to run up there and punch his ugly face in here and now.

"So you didn't see any other person there?" the judge questions with barely hidden mistrust.

"No, yer honour. No one." the culprit insists stubbornly, radiating innocence.

Resisting the urge to jump up and shout 'Confess, you dirty lying bastard!' Watson turns to the man sitting next to him again. "We should go and tell Lestrade."

Holmes looks disinclined. "Even if he does believe me, there's no evidence."

This objection baffles the doctor. "You recognized the voice. And as they know you, that should be good enough for them. Anyway no one is believing that story about him just aimlessly wandering around at night and never seeing nobody when they found him right next to you. They'll pin it on him, one way or another."

A sigh from the neighbouring seat. "Alright. Do we have to do it now?"

"Well, he is on trial at the moment." Watson argues. "I don't think anyone wants to let him go, but if there's nothing else they can charge him with, they can't remand him in custody much longer."

Holmes sags. "Yeah, you're right. Of course. You're right." he mumbles.

His friend gives him a concerned look. "What's all this avoidance? That's not like you."

The other brushes a hand through his ever-dishevelled hair, letting it rest on his head for a second, as if unsure where to go from there. "I just … try to …get my memory in some kind of order, make it presentable if you like, and I'd hate having to do that in front of Lestrade." he explains.

The doctor nods. "I understand. And speaking of making presentable, you should maybe go home and change before speaking to the inspector. This outfit might inspire him to ask unpleasant questions."

"It's probably going to be one of those painful interrogations anyway." Holmes answers, resignation in his voice. "But far be it from me to talk you out of it. Going home first seems a splendid suggestion to me."

They leave the court room without arising much attention and Watson closes the door carefully, trying to keep it as noiseless as possible. When he turns round he nearly bumps into Lestrade.

"Ah, doctor." the small man greets him. "Here for the hearing?"

Giving a forced smile the other nods at him. "Indeed inspector."

The inspector nods to himself, as if satisfied with that answer as his eyes fall on Holmes in his leper-outfit. "And who is your … God, Holmes, is that you?"

The detective gives the squinting man in front of him an insulted pout. "No, I'm his aunt Esmerald from Edinburgh and you sir, are no gentleman."

Scowling the inspector takes a step back. "I see your lip hasn't suffered at least." he states coldly and Watson, who immediately feels he should defend his friend from verbal abuse like this, bites his tongue on time. It would not be appreciated, he knows. Hell, it would probably be worse than the actual offence which wasn't that bad, if he tries to look at things more objectively.

"But why are you running around dressed up like this?" Lestrade continues and then, before the detective even has the chance to utter one syllable, he pales and starts to stammer. "Oh, shit, you can't see what it looks like of course, I'm terribly sorry."

This time Holmes doesn't even deem him worthy of sarcasm. "Oh, come on Lestrade. Even you can't be dumb enough to think that I put on a false nose by accident. I mean how? Because I thought it was a hat and I assumed I had put it on my head when actually I missed and put it right in the middle of my face? I'm blind, not brain-amputated."

The inspector gives an embarrassed chuckle. "Ah, yes, of course, silly of me."

"And the idea that I would accompany him here and never tell him what it looks like." Watson adds seriously indignant.

"Yes, Watson here has turned into the perfect nanny. Usually when we go out these days he winds coloured ribbons in my hair. I'm sure it looks adorable."

Feeling immediately guilty as the bitter tone in Holmes' voice hits him, Watson reflects that this was probably another stupid thing to say. When has he turned into such an overprotective clucking hen? He shudders at the thought. He will have to do something about that.

"Anyway, I did not want Mr. Thatcher who's telling his little fairy tales in there to recognize me. It is him I owe this lovely white eye-protector to." Holmes gestures to his bandage.

"What, is he a doctor?" Lestrade starts but quickly catches himself when the body language of the two men opposite him is spelling the word IDIOT in really large letters. "Oh, I see. You mean he …" the inspectors breaks off.

"Cut my eye area. Yes." Holmes confirms coolly.

Lestrade scratches his temple. "No offence, but, how do you know? You can't identify him."

Again Watson feels his blood boil and his muscles poised to jump forward, grab the man's collar and shake him for the very suggestion that his friend's identification skills are to be doubted in any way.

And Holmes does indeed sound a little strained when he answers. "I recognized the voice and believe me, I know what I'm saying. It's most certainly him."

The inspector shrugs. "Oh well, he is one of the prime suspects. What with being found unconscious at the crime scene, just a few feet away from you. But we had better continue this talk in my office. If you would follow me, gentlemen?"

Only Watson notices the slight hint of nervousness in Holmes' "Sure, let's go." and this urge to protect his friend floods him once more as he offers his arm to lead the way.

xxx

The office is small and most of the scarce space is taken up by a huge dark oak desk. Placed on one of two small wooden stools in front of it, the doctor feels rather uncomfortable when Lestrade takes up his seat in an enormous arm-chair, for once towering over him from behind the slick table top. "Alright then." he says, addressing Holmes. "What happened that night?"

The detective, who has lost the false nose somewhere in the depths of his far too wide clothing, remains silent for a moment, as if sorting his thoughts, and then starts: "I was out tailing this guy, Jenkins. It was clear that they were using the technology they stole from my client to build some kind of weapon-machinery, but I couldn't find where they had hidden it. I would have preferred to take a look at it when no one was there working on it, but from the intelligence I had gathered a swift move was not to be delayed and so I decided to take the risk and follow him."

"Why didn't you ask for a squad to accompany you?" Lestrade interjects, visibly annoyed.

"Um, because I wanted to follow him without him noticing?" the detective replies, his tone clearly giving away what his words didn't spell out directly, that Lestrade's men were as capable of being unobtrusive as a mob of angry cats hidden in a barrel.

If Lestrade is angry he's hiding it behind a slightly arrogant façade now. "And you accomplished that, did you?"

Holmes shrugs. "Of course. I followed him all the way to the harbour and right to the construction site. I was planning on alerting you in the morning, since this had turned into a matter of public security. But when I saw that the damn thing was practically finished I decided that I had to act immediately."

"And you came up with the marvellous idea of destroying it. Scotland Yard is on my back again about me not delivering this machine in a working state to their research department." Lestrade cuts in again, sounding genuinely haunted with the last words.

"It was the only way to stop that thing without anyone having to go up against it. I'm sure the nice gentlemen from Scotland Yard would have been more than glad to sacrifice a dozen or something of your lads in exchange for an intact piece of war technology, but then we have always differed on priorities."

The biting acid in Holmes' voice is enough to shut the inspector up. He gives a small cough and then urges his interview partner on. "So, how did you do it?"

"Well, I do like to carry one or the other useful substance on missions like this, triggering small explosions is one of my easiest exercises. The more difficult part was getting at a good fracture point of the construction without being spotted, but luckily the present men seemed absorbed in a bit of an argument round the back of the thing, so I figured I could slip in and out unseen like a plain and timid girl at a society dance."

He stops to suck his lower lip in for a second, and then, letting go, continues. "But, sadly, lady luck was refusing me her benign smile that night. It took me longer then I had expected to set up the explosion and when I clambered away from the thing in a bit off a hurry – because you don't linger where an explosion is due, even if you made double sure and saw to it, that it won't be activated in less than ten minutes – I nearly bumped right into this guy. He was a smart fighter, ramming his fist in my stomach when I was still stunned with surprise and getting me down and some solid kicks in before he started the old "Well, well, what have we here?"-routine. If he had but waited for the first "Well", I would have knocked him out, but – credit where credit's due – he chose to play it safe and won the round."

A strange taste invades the doctor's mouth as he listens to the events of the night that he hears reconstructed for the first time. Like unsound fruit or maybe something fishy and swallowing produces a stab of sickness. 'I should have been there.' a vicious voice whispers inside his head. 'I should have been there. It wouldn't have come to this then. I should have been there to watch his back. Like I used to.'

He looks at Holmes who has fallen silent, but just now advances to speak again. "At that moment I really wasn't bothered too much about what he might do to me. Wasn't the first time I got caught in the act and I can stomach an honest beating, so tough luck, ok, but nothing to get all wound up about. And then these two other guys pull me back up to face him and he looks me right in the eyes with that malicious little grin and says 'We will not have any witnesses.' And he sounds a bit amused, as if he is looking forward to something. And well, then somehow I knew I was in trouble."

Holmes stops, appearing calm, but his friend sitting next to him can read the little traitorous signs, like his fingers twitching ever so slightly and the lower lip that's constantly in motion, being pushed back and forth only millimetres, but Watson spots it, as Holmes himself would surely have done and when you listen for it, like Watson is doing now, it isn't too hard to distinguish that strain in the detective's voice as he fights to keep it steady.

"So I started to blurt out all the classic lines. That I had just been wandering around, that I had been curious, but I had no idea what this thing was supposed to be and that I wouldn't tell anybody. And he didn't even listen to a word, just grinned and whipped this knife from his pocket and then came closer."

Another pause and somehow the doctor knows that this is one of those parts where a censoring preparation at home should have cut out things that now flood his friend's mind and throng to be let out. Here, where they would lie naked and ugly on that pompous oak desk and eat their way through the wood to stain the carpet. That mustn't happen, not here.

He looks at Holmes, who still keeps silent. The corners of his mouth have started to twitch as well now.

_You know you're in trouble. For some reason you know you're really in trouble this time and you feel sickness splash around in your stomach. _

_That pockmarked face coming right at you, still grinning, his eyes never leaving yours and the knife in his hand threat enough without any words to back it up. He licks his lips and comes closer, cupping your left cheek in his hand with skin like sand-paper and you feel your body __go all rigid a__nd your breath catching in your throat as he presses the blade to your right cheek and slowly draws it down from cheekbone to chin in a nearly tender fashion. It hardly hurts, the blade is sharp but you are cold with terror as you feel the blood seep through the cut. _

_He smiles even wider and runs a finger over the bleeding stripe and then over your lips, now less careful and you don't dare to breathe as he harshly smears them with your own blood. He takes a step back and laughs as you swallow, evidently amused at you visible dread. _

_Then his eyes turn harder and he commands "Hold him tight, boys." Instinctively you fight against the grip that has been toughened with renewed force, trying to break free, but it's no good. You avoid looking at your aggressor any more and just desperately kick and squirm in that vice-like grip, but to no avail and then his hot breath falls on your skin again._

"_Look at me, asshole." he demands and when you don't oblige he hits you hard right in the face. You cough and spit and stop struggling, just let your body sag in the tight hold of the two musclemen that seem to be paid for not talking. _

_And then your face is grabbed and forcefully shoved upwards again and before you can even register the swift hand-movement there is burning pain in your right eye and your vision blurring and swimming with blood. Acting on instinct once again you struggle to pull your hands free, to cover the sensitive open wound in your face, but they won't grant you that comfort as you howl in pain and start begging for mercy, dignity be damned_.

"So." comes Lestrade's unbearably smug voice. "They seem to have managed to intimidate you. That's quite a feat."

Trying to convince himself that hitting the inspector on the head with his own oversized table will not help the situation, Watson clenches his hands to fists behind the cover of his seat and shakes his head at Lestrade his look conveying that this was totally unnecessary and below the belt. The inspector has the decency to look a little guilty.

"Ah. … yes." Holmes manages as he comes out of his memory-trap. He catches himself feeling around for Watson's hand to press and instead hastily presses both his own hands together behind the back of his chair, squeezing them absent-mindedly.

Even Lestrade seems taken aback by that dispirited answer and he questions on more sympathetically. "So, he just cut right through your eyes? Just like that?"

"The left one first." the detective explains, his voice shaking just the tinsiest little bit. "It's difficult to cut right through both eyes. The nose gets in the way, you see."

A disgusted expression creeps up on the inspectors usually unimpressed features. "He cut through your left eye and than came back to do the other one?" he digs on.

"Yeah, like that, more or less." Holmes agrees stiffly.

But Lestrade isn't letting go. "Oh that is mean. Leaves you time to think about what happened and what is going to happen."

Holmes lips tighten to a stiff line as he forces through clenched teeth: "Exactly."

_You cry. And you beg them to let you go. You have sagged to your knees and the men holding you still have allowed you to do so but kept their firm grip on you. Now they pull you up again and knife-guy stares at you again, smiling serenely. "Please." you sob while the blood drips down your cheek. "Please let me go. I haven't seen anything. I won't see anything." _

_Your opponent gives a small chortle. "That's right." he agrees "You won't." And with that he pulls your face into his knifeless hand again and this time you know what is going to come and you scream and you fight in nameless terror "No. Don't. Please. No." until the pain in your left eye duplicates itself in the right one, blooming to an explosion of hot sharp whiteness all through your brain and when the explosion dies down and you find yourself dropped to the ground it is darker than ever, no more images, just that repulsive wet feeling of the blood seeping out of your eye-sockets. _

Watson realizes that his friend is gone again and decides he should probably say something before Lestrade comes up with some totally stupid comment again. But what can he say, when all his mind throws up is the ever same repetitive sing-song. 'I should have been there. I should have been there. I should have been there. Oh, god …'

"Still, you were lucky they didn't kill you." Lestrade offers in a way that's probably meant to be cheering up, but just sounds careless to the doctor's ears.

Holmes raises his head again, shaking it a little as if trying to get rid of the mental images and focus on the here and now. "Yeah. Strangely enough he seemed to enjoy the foreplay but had not much interest in finishing it off. He ordered the other two guys to kill me and would probably have left, if the explosion had not finally gone up at that very moment. I actually thought he had already left, but then I couldn't really tell what with all the rubble falling down at me. The other two guys must have been hit too, unless they were extremely lucky."

"They weren't." the inspector comments dryly. "We found them both dead. At least, it should be these two. Right next to you."

Holmes seems confused for a moment. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, we didn't want to suggest anything to you before your memory came back." Lestrade explains.

The detective sounds annoyed by now. "It never occurred to you that it might have helped?"

"I don't know." the inspector doesn't seem very interested and Watson puts a calming hand on his friend's thigh as he sees that he is close to shouting.

"Leave it be." he whispers. "Maybe it was for the best. So you didn't have to handle that memory on top of everything else in the first weeks."

Holmes puts his own hand down on the doctor's, leaves it there for a couple of seconds and then shoves the friend's hand away.

"Alright Holmes." Lestrade starts, standing up. "We will confront him with that and I promise he won't see the light of day himself any time soon."

'No hitting.' Watson repeats to himself. 'No hitting. Don't hit the inspector.' Although he can't come up with many good reasons against it any more. Instead he says: "Does it have to be a direct confrontation?"

Lestrade seems surprised. "Yes, of course. How else should it be done? And I see no problem with that. He seems to have taken it very well, haven't you Holmes?"

The abstract grimace on Holmes' face is hard to read and makes Watson a little nauseous. It seems to be a mixture of satisfaction at having managed to keep his face in front of Lestrade, incredulous amusement at the fact he actually did, hysteric giddyness at the diametric difference between the inspector's observation and his actual state of mind and the politeness of a forced smile, to make Lestrade believe that he got it exactly right.

The doctor is highly worried about the idea of a confrontation. Holmes is not stable at all, it's obvious. And there was definitely a lot that he did not tell. Fortunately, for Lestrade would not have been a good keeper for that kind of sensitive information. But there seems to be a trauma that had lain hidden in the unconscious and would now have to be faced head on. As if they didn't have enough on their plate already.

He so wants to spare his friend this confrontation, but he knows he can't keep him from going, it would only weaken him. Still, the protection instinct kicks in again and all the way home he wonders if it is maybe a compensative reaction. That his subconscious feels it has to be overprotective now, because he neglected his duty when he was needed most. Because he did not protect his friend when he should have done. He should have been there. And he could never make up for that.

TBC


	8. Confrontations

_**Sorry for the wait, I was on a field trip last week - beautiful Estonia. :)**_

_**But here comes the next chapter. Hope you like it and if you do (or if you don't) I'm always happy when you share your thoughts with me.**_

_**In this respect: Big hugs and Estonian candy go to reflekshun and mustangwoman. Thank you so much for the reviews, it means a lot!**_

**8. Confrontations**

"So." Watson ventures carefully as they have made themselves comfortable at home, sipping a steaming tea with a good helping of rum. "Do you think you can take the confrontation?"

"Yah, sure." Holmes answers shortly, his body language immediately manning the posts, all defense.

"Good. That's good." the doctor hurries to reply, trying not to let his scepticism show. After a moment's silence he starts a new attempt. "If there's anything you would like to talk about …"

Holmes cuts him off curtly: "No, thanks."

"Ok." Watson agrees softly and then continues a little awkwardly. "But, you know, if you ever feel like it, you can always talk to me, anytime, really …"

"Yeah, thanks." the detective's voice has lost energy as he bows his head, holding the hot cup with both hands.

Watson leans back in his chair, stifling a sigh, so that the other won't feel pressured by his frustration. When Holmes suddenly puts the cup on the table and starts speaking, he is more than a little surprised. "I was really scared, you know. I was so fucking scared, I've never been that scared before in my life." he utters, as if that fact was surprising news to him too.

"That's ok." Watson tries to reassure, but his efforts at counseling backfire when the other man reacts irritated.

"Of course it's ok. Some freaking maniac comes at you and cuts your face up, that is a damn good reason to be scared. I wasn't fretting about my failure of putting up a fearless-hero-scene or something like that." He calms down a little again. "All I'm saying is, that I have never been that scared before in my life, and that's quite an unsettling experience."

"That's why I thought it might be a bit tough on you to confront that man in court." Watson formulates carefully, hoping that he won't set him off again, but Holmes sounds calm and convinced when he says: "It should be all right. As long as you all make sure he can't do anything."

"Maybe I could break his arms and legs, would that help?" And he would love too, honestly …

The other man smirks a little. "Yeah, that would be nice, thanks."

"Hm, let's see what I can do." Watson continues. "It is really easy, if you know the exact point where to apply the metal bar. I just need to get hold of him."

Holmes grins a little more. "You are a dangerous man to have around one's body. I'm lucky you love me so much."

Somehow that statement hits the doctor like a plank to his head. Ha, yes, but apparently not enough to not let him wander London's nightly streets on his own. His throat grows tight. "I should have been there." he mumbles quietly.

"What?" the detective seems confused.

"I should have been there." he repeats more loudly. "That night. I …" he breaks off, not knowing how to continue.

He hears Holmes breathe deeply and then turn to him with a stern voice. "Now that's nonsense. You know its nonsense and I know you know it. And I'm in no mood to comfort you over silliness like that right now. Please don't make me." The last sentence comes out more tired than rebuking.

"Sorry." the other man mutters meekly.

Holmes hand feels around for his friend's arm and rests on it. "I blamed myself when you got hit by that explosion at the slaughter house. You should not have been there then, but I made you come along." He pauses but there's no reply. "You don't blame me for that do you?" he presses on.

His friend is aghast: "No. No, of course not. No. It was my choice. And I was chasing after Blackwood mindlessly, I should have stopped and thought. And you were right behind me, if only I'd waited for you to catch up."

"So." the detective concludes. "You see, I wasn't there, but that doesn't mean it's my fault."

Watson casts his eyes down. "But you were right behind me." he argues. "I wasn't there at all."

Holmes sighs and turns away. "Do you really blame yourself?" he asks, a little worn-out.

Watson looks down on his hands. "I just wish …" but he doesn't know how to continue.

"I don't think you do." his friend declares to the silent room. "You feel bad, because, being a close friend, you are not completely indifferent to my well-being and you wish to do something about it. So you are searching for any way to make things alright and the only thing you can come up with is going back into the past and stop the cause of my current predicament from happening at all. And that is not possible. So you feel even worse. Impotent. But you don't really blame yourself. You just feel bad and you think it's guilt. But it's not, it's just pity."

'He's probably right, as usual.' Watson thinks to himself. And he felt better feeling guilt instead of pity, because guilt made him the rueful victim of his own mistakes haunting him, but pity, now that means that he still isn't granting his friend the dignity he deserves and he makes him the victim. And that just sucks.

"Great." he finally proclaims. "So now I can feel guilty for pitying you and trying to cover it up with a guilt-story because that made me look better."

"That's why I'm not too fond of all this endless discussing of emotions." Holmes replies dryly. "It only gets you deeper into the swamp. Diving to the bottom of these murky depths is something I gladly leave to braver men. So what if you're just fooling yourself most of the time? As long as you end up with a halfway working individual that's fine by me."

This makes the doctor chuckle despite himself. "Mr. Freud is not a friend of yours, is he?" he inquires.

Dark eyes roll in contempt. "Don't start. If you ask me, it's just his way of picking up women: Have them talk about their intimate dreams and then tell them their problems are all rooted in sexual repression. And from there you can guess where the cure is going to come from."

* * *

The next day finds them in the courtroom already and someone is even less amused at that then Watson.

"This is ridiculous. How can you convict me on the word of a blind man? Someone who, after his own testimony, never met his attacker before and encountered him only when the latter immediately knocked him down and cut his eyes? And, if I may say so, one who is prone to be highly traumatized as well as hungry for vengeance. Two more points that should cloud his judgement, especially under the already foggy circumstances."

Who'd thought that Harold Thatcher could be this eloquent?

The detective whose raven hair and dark clothes make the white bandage on his face stand out all the more turns to the judge: "I know exactly what I'm saying. I recognize the voice. You should know that emotionally strongly coded moments, like for example moments of extreme fear, sharpen your senses and enhance memorability greatly and I assure you, your honour, that voice is imprinted on my brain forever, as hearing it coincided with one of the most intense moments of my life."

But his opponent doesn't give up that easily: "You say the aggressor talked to you when he injured you? But I am – as you might not know, I'll grant you that – I am standing at least 10 metres away from you. That is hardly comparable is it?"

The judge frowns and Thatcher goes on: "So for a more undoubtful identification I should have my lips by your ear, no? Maybe we can run through the scene?"

Jumping up from his seat Watson shouts at the culprit before anyone else can comment: "You stay where you are!"

This earns him a stern look from the tribunal: "Doctor Watson, I caution you to keep order in the Court. This might not be a complete trial but it is still an official hearing and you are to behave accordingly."

"But he can't do that." the doctor complains weakly.

"He does have a certain point." the judge disagrees. "We wouldn't want to condemn him without a solid testimony."

"You can't allow-" the doctor starts stubbornly but Holmes interrupt s him as he steps forward from behind the counter and into the middle of the room.

"It's ok. I don't mind. I certainly would not want to leave a bump in the road of law by presenting anything less then unquestionable identification."

The judge nods. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, that shall be for the best. Mr. Thatcher, do join Mr. Holmes for the staging."

The accused smirks. "With pleasure."

Although he's feigning indifference Holmes feels agitated. Darkness, just darkness all round and that instinct running prickling through his muscles, telling him, urging him to fly.

Pathetic, he won't stand for it, nothing can happen here, he won't be intimidated like a little girl. There is all kinds of people here who keep an eye on him, even if he can't see them, he knows them to be there. Anyway, where would he run to?

He feels exposed, on this free ground, grasps the air for reassurance with his fingers, hoping that no one will notice. He'd give anything to sense the presence of Watson covering him. That's how he likes to face his enemies, back to back, that rush of adrenalin, alertness mingling with the pleasure drawn from the body contact.

But howsoever, he thinks, pulling himself together, he refuses to be made into a gullible victim, to be manipulated with fear. No, he will send this guy to his well-deserved sentence today.

Despite his resolution Holmes jumps a little when there is a sudden voice whispering by his ear: "Hello then."

The irritation with his own reaction flows into his words when he harshly demands: "Well, go on, say something."

Harold Thatcher doesn't raise his voice when he goes on to speak in a low and menacing tone and with a hint of mockery: "So, you think you recognize me, do you? I wouldn't be too sure if I was you. I would actually develop sudden grave doubts now. Things can happen otherwise. Nasty things. Things you would not like to experience if you catch my drift."

The warm breath on his ear makes Holmes sick with revulsion. The feeling that this foul moisture is going to seep through his skin. Panic tries to break loose in his mind, run it over and leave rational thought on the ground whimpering. _The knife. The pain. That sickening sensation of blood dripping from your eyes. The mortal fear._

But this is not the nightly docks area, vast and deserted. It's a courtroom filled with witnesses and that scum won't dare anything here. He knows his fear and he won't be intimidated by his fear, though his body reacts to it. It takes a lot of willpower to not back away, to stay rooted to the spot unwavering, but he does and manages to unclench his teeth and pronounce a clear statement: "It's definitely him. I recognize the voice. And the smell."

The detective feels his opponent shaking slightly before the chuckling emerges for all to be heard.

"Look at you." Thatcher says in a voice that could be called tender. "I did this. You think you can contain me? You'll always fear me."

Holmes stands rigid, his breathing stopping, when fingers caressingly run around the edge of his bandage. And he rests like that for a few more seconds when the wiry man is seized by the court officers and pulled away from him upon the judge's shouted command.

"We have a confession. Harold Thatcher, you will be brought to justice for your crimes. I declare this hearing ended." the judge announces.

There is a lot of commotion, different voices mixing and interfering with one another, chairs being pushed, footsteps intermingling and somewhere in that ocean of noise – a pair of handcuffs clicking shut. Holmes relaxes a little under the sound of that, but keeps standing very still, waiting for the buzz to die down.

And then there is Watson by his side, touching his arm lightly to announce his presence – as if he couldn't tell – and guiding him into a quieter corner of the room.

"It's over." he says and the detective nods imperceptibly.

"Wasn't too bad, was it?" he asks nonchalantly, but the words come out graceless as they stumble over the still not completely vanished lump in his throat.

The doctor pretends not to notice. "I'm just glad everything turned out well." he replies diplomatically.

_TBC_


	9. Nightmares

**Ah, a long wait again, sorry, so much to do ... I'll try and put the rest up sooner, there's two more chapters to come.**

_**To chocs, reflekshun, Handful of Silence, Rock is Freedom and Anglophile Prussian****: Thank you so much for your kind words and your support. It's a great incentive to keep going. :)  
**_

_**To anonymous reviewer: Thanks for taking the time to give me your opinion. (Though it is highly unlikely you're ever gonna read this, since it would be strange if you came back to this story, but, whatever ...)**_

_**To George2Bob1: I honestly have no idea whether your review is positive or negative, I would think negative, but it came with an alert, so 'you think the style is poor, but you still want to know how the story continues'? Anyway: Thanks for reviewing. **_

9. Nightmares

_That night Thatcher returns to finish what he started._

_Suddenly and inexplicably he peals himself out of the shadows in the Holmes' bedroom and the detective finds he cannot move as that menacing grin comes closer and closer and closer ..._

He screams and wakes with a start, at the first moment frantically clawing at the bandage over his eyes, but firm hands pull his fingers away. "Shush, it's alright. It was just a nightmare."

Watson.

He pulls his hands free from the other's grip and draws them close to his body, sitting upright in the bed, heart beating like a battle-drum, just trying to concentrate on calming his breathing.

"It's ok." comes Watson's voice from close by. "Don't be embarrassed. I've seen far worse in the war, believe me. Experienced men, tough soldiers, reduced to quivering, sobbing heaps by dreams that made them relive scenes that had traumatized their minds. It's a normal reaction. Nothing to be ashamed of."

'Great.' some inner part of his brain thinks detached from the situation. 'Now I'm blind _and_ traumatized. That's just great.'

He swallows and tries to keep the shaking out of his voice as he answers. "Yeah, thanks. I'm ok I think."

The doctor nods. "You should try and go back to sleep."

Looking down at Holmes who curls up under the blankets, all tense, covered in sweat and shivering unconsciously, he recognizes the picture as one he has seen many times before. And you don't leave a man like that. Not without giving him the comfort of the reassuring company of his comrades close by. And it must be extra cruel when he can't see that you are here for him.

Without hesitation Watson climbs into the bed. Before the other man can protest, he grabs his arm and positions it on his own waist. "Here. So you will know I'm here." he explains.

Holmes has gone rigid under the touch but he can't deny that the warm body close to his own is comforting. "Thanks." he mumbles quietly.

"You're welcome." Watson answers yawning. "At least I'll spare myself getting up again to hurry over here."

* * *

When Holmes urges his friend to go and pay his wife a visit the next day, the doctor suspects that this idea was at least partially born out of embarrassment about last night's events. But he can't deny that he feels a pang of guilt when he thinks about how long he left Mary without even so much as a word. It is so very much like her that she has not come round to protest yet.

And the detective is getting on rather well now, launching on a book immediately after breakfast to practice his braille reading, just mumbling a distracted "Yeah, alright." when his friend announces that he is leaving for Cavendish Place.

"John." Mary is obviously happy and surprised to see him. "How come you're here?"

"Good news." Watson smiles at her. "I think he's getting better. He suggested I should come to see you."

Nothing in her eyes gives away that she would have hoped for his own initiative behind this visit. "Oh? That's lovely. Will you be moving back then soon?"

This is a question that the doctor himself has given some thought to on his way here and he nods confidently. "Looks like it. Shouldn't be much longer till he's stable enough to be on his own now."

His wife's face is open and sincere when she answers: "That is great. I'm happy for you." And then that air of selflessness subsides as she goes on: "And for us of course. How much time have you got?"

The tall man moves his head pensively: "Well, I can't stay overnight I'm afraid but it should be fine if I stay for dinner, I guess."

"Great." Mary's eyes glisten with glee. "Maybe we can pretend you're staying overnight and retire early. Like, now."

Seeing the eagerness on his wife's features Watson shrugs and lets himself be dragged off to the bedroom.

When an hour later Mary snuggles close, exhausted and happy, embracing him, he involuntarily compares the soft skin against his body to the sleeping form of Holmes lying next to him, his arm slumped stubbornly round his waist. Somehow that inspired so much more feel-goodness in him. A feeling of being exactly right, complete, untouched by the world, all good and warm and dry, no matter what.

And he feels his relaxation withdraw already as he starts to fret about Holmes, home alone and helpless. He had probably fallen, had had an accident and was lying helplessly on the floor, all alone. Or he would pretend he had had an accident, just to make him feel guilty for staying away so long. Yes, that would be so typical …

Mary has fallen asleep in his arms, snoring gently. He carefully pulls out of her embrace, covers her with the blanket and gets dressed. Brushing a fleeting kiss on his wife's front, Watson rushes from the house, heading for Baker Street.

When he arrives, all is dark. Checking the room he finds that Holmes has indeed gone to bed, evidently not expecting his return.

Relieved and a little surprised he goes to put on his pyjamas and then returns immediately to see if all is still quiet and to decide where he will sleep tonight.

Although Holmes seems to be sleeping peacefully he lingers a little, unwilling to return to his own room. As he watches his friend sleep his mind drifts off into foggy absentness until suddenly, a whimper pulls him back sharply. Holmes has started to twitch and become more agitated.

Carefully, Watson lifts the covers to slip under and grabs an errand hand that is being flung around as if trying to fight off an enemy. Holding the hand tight, that struggles a little to break free, Watson waits until the detective seems to calm down again before he himself lowers his head to the pillow, placing Holmes' hand on its old spot on his waist. Instinctively Holmes snuggles close to him, bringing their bodies into direct contact and sighing contently he seems to fall back into worryless slumber.

Watson isn't bothered by the man who is now well and truly cuddled up in his embrace. The fact, that his presence is enough to calm the friend down and bring him comfort makes him too happy to object. It moves him and somehow leaves him proud and strangely satisfied. And within minutes he is sound asleep as well.

* * *

When Holmes wakes up with warm limbs entangled into his own, hot breath falling onto his ear, his first impulse is to jump up and scream.

If you go to bed alone and wake up to find someone next to you that is frightening enough even without you being unable to actually see who or what is cuddled up to you.

But his body somehow tells him, that this is good, not threatening and the hairs on his arms refuse to rise. He doesn't want to break away and as he takes the time to register the situation his anxiety falters. He'd know that scent anywhere. It's Watson alright.

So he should probably get up or at least break the body-contact, but this just feels so nice. And anyway, he tells himself, Watson can hardly blame him. When all is said and done it was him who climbed into his bed.

Strange, he thinks, Watson used to be so endearingly uncomfortable whenever he enforced body-contact upon him in the past. But now he just climbed into his bed the second night in a row. Obviously he is not a threat anymore.

That thought tastes a little bitter in his mouth. Yes, he is indulged, like a child, helpless and invalid as he is he does not constitute a threat to Watson's standing as a straight virile former military. He is no potential seducer, just a blind, pitiable invalid who is indulged because everyone feels so sorry for him.

Suddenly he doesn't want to be close to Watson anymore.

Jumping up from the bed he gingerly feels his way to the stool where he had positioned the clothes for today. He has spent half the time of Watson's absence yesterday on patiently fingering the little wooden plates that his friend had kindly attached to all his clothes, trying to find out what he was going to wear the other day. Stripping from his pyjamas he takes care to put them down in the exact pre-determined spot, so he would be able to find them again in the evening and then puts the fresh clothes on.

* * *

Sunlight stings the doctor's blinking eyes and he automatically squeezes them shut again, turns to the other side and for a moment snuggles deeper into the blankets, following that lovely musky scent, before thought processes finally reach the conscious part of his brain and the lids jerk open again.

Why is it so bright? Did he miss the alarm?

And as he slowly wakes, sleepiness retreating from his mind in a sluggish but steady pace something else springs to attention, another strange thing, another discrepancy.

This is not his room.

He looks down at the linen, nope, not his bed either.

Yes, of course, he slept in Holmes' bed, but where is the detective?

He quickly gets up and dressed and finds the missing upon entering the sitting room, lounging in an armchair with a cup of tea and a book.

"Morning." Watson offers a little disoriented.

"Morning. Mrs. Hudson left your breakfast on the table." the other man informs him.

Turning to look the doctor notices that Holmes already ate, a used set of tableware assembled neatly next to his clean dishes and the plate covered by a cloche.

As the doctor sits down to take his breakfast as well he can't help but think that his friend seems to be getting along quite well on his own now.

With a strange sterility the topic of who slept in whose bed is avoided, polite conversation covering the room in an artificial protective cover.

When Watson takes place next to his friend, blowing the steam from his mug of black tea with a fair dose of milk, Holmes mentions casually, as if it was a matter of little importance: "You know, I think I'm managing quite well on my own."

Watson lowers the cup before it reaches his lips. "You're saying?"

"I'm saying I think your job as caretaker is done. I send a message to my brother this morning apprising him that I'm ready to move into his place."

"Oh." The news take the doctor by surprise. "Oh, well … that's great. I … um … Great."

His stammering makes Holmes' tone go sharp: "Don't you trust me?"

Watson is taken aback: "What? No. That's not it. I'm just a little ... shorttaken, that's all. But certainly, you are right, I was just thinking the same thing."

The detective gives a satisfied nod. "Good. Then it's settled. You best get packing then. I bet Mary will be completely thrilled to have you back again so soon."

The unsettling feeling that the world is suddenly turning a lot faster and he is the only one unable to catch up with the pace makes Watson's head swirl and he clings to his mug for comfort. "What already? Can I at least finish my tea first?"

"No. I want you out of my house." Holmes states with a straight face but breaks into a hurried grin when the shocked silence from his friend's direction tells him the irony was lost on the latter. "Just kidding."

Strange how he feels reluctant to go. Takes as long as possible to collect his things into the suitcase, folding them extra neatly and he catches himself thinking again and again 'I'll leave that, won't be needing it till I'm back.', unconsciously overlooking bits and pieces as if he's planting excuses to come back for.

Ridiculous.

He starts getting impatient with his own fuzzy mind and with a sudden determination he throws everything into the trunk and shuts it on the crumpled pile forcefully.

And then he walks over to the sitting room repeating himself in oh so many words:

"You sure you'll be alright?" "I'll come by and check on you tomorrow." "The day after tomorrow then." Just a short visit." "If anything should come up, send me a message, anytime, ok?" "Will you be alright?"

And on like that till an unnerved Holmes shoves him out of the room and when he still doesn't stop talking, feels his way along the doctor's arm and shoulder till he finds the mouth and flaps it shut with a warm palm.

"John." he says sternly and this gets him full attention. "I'll be fine. Stop worrying and go home."

Feeling stupid and embarrassed Watson just nods, but the scent from that hand that now falls away from his face still lingers in his nostrils. It's a familiar, comforting smell that somehow tells him 'This is absurd. Home is here. How can you go anywhere else to go home?'

He shakes the confusion from his head, grateful that this gesture can go unnoticed, and scoffs a little at his own silly behaviour. "I'm off then."

"You bet you are." the detective affirms grinning and closes the door in the doctor's back.

* * *

Mary comes down into the corridor to see what the noise is and her anticipating smile grows until she's beaming like a lighthouse when her eyes fall on the suitcase that stands on the carpet.

And somehow the way she clings happily to the doctor's neck shuts his air off, making him squirm for room to breathe.

"Let me take the coat off, I'm not going anywhere for a while now." he excuses.

And luckily the smile doesn't fade at that.

And so they eat dinner and talk afterwards, or rather, Mary talks and he lets it wash over him, not really there and neither anywhere else.

Like nowhere. Like wrong. Like locked away, just a paperwidth from where she is, but unable to break through. Sealed off and watching, but never making contact.

And so they go to bed and get back up in the morning and he goes to the clinic to to prepare its reopening and then goes back to Cavendish Place in the evening, forcing himself to remember that this is where he is supposed to go, not Baker Street.

And he eats dinner and goes back to bed.

And the minutes fall like a steady rain, never changing, not one special, not one moving him, touching him and he feels numb, like his whole body has gone to sleep and the pins and needles never come.

And when he tries to get back to the world, when he concentrates to be aware, to be present, he just ends up feeling heavy with his tongue lying swollen in his mouth, nearly suffocating him.

Life goes on, so he keeps going, hours pouring away at his window glass.

Wasn't he supposed to be happy? He's not sure.

_TBC_


	10. GoodByes

_**To IchigoPudding, George2Bob1, JantoJO'Neill, reflekshun, ladykale1985, mustangwoman, Anglophile Prussian and Rock is Freedom: Thank you for all your wonderful support!**_

_**Second to last chapter everybody, we're getting there. :)**_

**10. Good-Byes  
**

When he gets the door a young boy he has never seen before is standing before him, examining him with a polite but not at all timid expression:"Dr. Watson, sir?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Mr. Holmes kindly asks for your presence in Baker Street."

The doctor blinks a little, but apart from that keeps his face emotionless. "I'll head there immediately, thank you."

"Sir." The boy tips his hat and runs off.

Half an hour later Watson stands in his old room with Holmes smiling at him a little sheepishly.

"I need your help Watson. Daily routine I can manage fine, but packing is just impossible." he admits.

"You're packing? Already?"

"Yes, Mycroft is coming to pick me up today. Luckily Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to read his message to me or I would have been completely unprepared."

"Oh. That's … spontaneous." Watson manages, his shocked surprise quite visible on his face.

"Yes, apparently he has business in Islington and was planning on paying me a surprise visit anyway when my message reached him." Holmes shakes his head a little consternated. "I can't believe he thought I'd like surprise visits. To be honest, I think he didn't plan on dropping in and just felt like an ass writing 'Oh, what a coincidence, I'm just in the vicinity. I just didn't notify you because I didn't want to meet you as long as you're still unstable and awkward to be around.'"

"Oh, I don't know about that …" Watson starts, but Holmes waves him aside. "I don't mind. Really. We don't have that kind of bond. I guess I would have done the same. So, will you help me with the packing?"

"Sure. Where do we start?"

So they pack, Holmes giving directions and Watson rummaging around the room, stashing more and more of it's content in the huge trunks that have been brought down from the attic. Every piece in those rooms holds memories, is drenched in Holmes-and-Watson-together-moments. Watson feels a lump grow in his throat as he puts all this away, cleaning the room of its past, of their mutual past.

When they are finally done, the room looks strange and empty, sterile, and so cold he starts to shiver. And it hits him there and then that Holmes is going to leave, not only Baker Street, but London, and these empty halls give him a taste of the emptiness that he will have to live with soon, make him realize what he is losing and also, with a sudden sharp pain to his chest, that he does not want to lose this for the world.

He joins Holmes who's standing by the window, caressing the wooden frame as if to say good-bye.

"Can't your stupid brother have a house in London?" he asks.

"He isn't stupid. He's quite brilliant actually." Holmes answers nonchalantly.

"He does not have a house in London. That's stupid I think. And I think I don't like him for that." Watson retorts sulkily.

"Now you're being childish."

"Yes." Watson admits more quietly. "I wish you wouldn't go."

"Stop being so selfish." Holmes answers, a little angrily.

"Hey, I'm not throwing myself at your feet, begging you to stay, I'm just letting you know that I care for you deeply and that it is a great loss for me not to have you close. I'd think that should make you feel good, knowing that there's people you mean a lot to. That's not selfish."

"Well, sounded more like the first to me." Holmes answers unmoved.

Watson sighs. "Maybe." he mumbles, more to himself.

"You know." Holmes starts, after a pause, "I'm a lucky man. In all the misfortune, I am lucky, because I have an immensely rich brother who will take care of me. I don't have to sit in the streets with a begging bowl, hoping to be kept alive by charity and without any possibilities to fill my lifetime with some kind of meaning. Mycroft has the resources, he can provide me with entertainment. Maybe I could publish some theses, he could hire me a secretary. I can do things." he says, pronouncing the last words with nearly desperate intensity. "It's a gift, it's … amazing grace, considering what this predicament would mean to most people."

"Why can't he hire a secretary for you here in London?" Watson argues.

Holmes sighs. "It's not as easy as that. I would need a lot more. And what am I to say? 'Yes, dear brother, keep the money flowing, but spare me your company.'?" Holmes turns his face away. "It's bad enough that I'll have to depend on his kindness anyway. I couldn't even go out on the streets on my own."

"I could go with you."

"Yeah, and while you're at it, why don't you take me in? Mary would be delighted I'm sure." he offers sarcastically.

Guiltily Watson realizes that he has made him feel like a charity-recipient. He sighs. "Yeah, you'd kill me first and then yourself. Or the other way round." he declares resignedly.

"Yes I would." Holmes replies emphatically.

"I still wish you wouldn't go." the doctor mumbles and then turns to face his friend. "So, we're saying good-bye then? I can't believe it …"

"Seems like it." Holmes fixes his bandaged eyes on him. "Thank you. For being there all the time. For everything you did for me."

"Gladly done." Watson answers, emotion in his voice. "You would have done the same for me."

Suddenly Watson finds his wrists in a double grip of iron, Holmes' bandaged sight locked right onto his face. "I wish I could see you." he declares, his voice desperate and close to breaking.

For a long horrible moment he stays like this, his body all tense and screwed up in the effort of staring without sight, fighting, as if he could force his eyes to see if only he tried hard enough. It breaks Watson's heart, making him wish fervently that there was anything he could do to help. And before he knows what he's doing he grabs that eager face, pulling it close to his own and pressing their lips together, forcefully pushing his tongue in, till the sharp pain of a knee colliding with his softer parts makes him break away and bend double.

Eyes watering he looks up at Holmes who stands panting, fighting for breath, looking very indignant and then starts yelling at him: "You can't do that to me! I'm helpless you bastard!"

Watson feels himself cringing and growing smaller under that irate accusation, that justified wrath. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to …, sorry." he spills, when the sound of the doorbell downstairs makes him turn around.

When he turns back, the rage has gone from Holmes' face, leaving only tiredness, woundedness.

"I am sorry." he says again, this time calmer, feeling very guilty.

Holmes nods slowly. "Yes." he says. And, chewing his lower lip for a moment he adds, as if talking to himself. "Not like this. Not like this."

"Well," Watson mumbles, "that'll be Mycroft. I'll be leaving then." And he turns to the door.

Holmes sighs and turns to grab his friend's arm, missing it by inches and pulling him back by his jacket. "Don't leave like that." he says and opens his arms to the other man who thankfully falls into the hug.

"You'll come and visit soon." Holmes offers reassuringly.

"Yes." Watson mumbles into his shoulder, when the sound of the door being thrown open makes him pull away with a start.

"Sherlock." The two men break away from each other, Holmes turning to the door whence the voice came from. "Ready for the country, are you?" Mycroft's smile seems a little forced.

"As ready as I'll ever be." he answers with just a hint of sarcasm.

"Doctor." The older Holmes turns to him, grabbing his hand firmly. "How can I ever thank you? For everything you did for us?"

Watson meets the steady gaze barely faltering. "No need to thank me. He would have done the same for me."

"Don't be too certain of that." comes a dry remark from the right.

Watson turns to him, giving him a sad smile. "Oh, but I am." he says and then nods to the older Holmes: "Good-bye then."

And this time, noone stops him as he walks out of the door.

**TBC**


	11. Mounted Messengers

_**So, probably no one is going to read this tonight, it is New Year's Eve after all, but I thought I should finish this before the new year starts, so here is the last chapter.**_

_**Special thanks to George2Bob1, mustangwoman, JantoJO'Neill and reflekshun for giving me their opinion on the last chapter and thanks to everyone who saw this story through with me.**_

_**Hope you all have a great start into 2011!**_

_**Hah, so here comes the King's Mounted Messenger/ Deus ex machina, call it what you like, cause this is my story and I'm not having anything stop my everything-miraculously-turning-out-to-be-good – ending. Certainly not any ideas about realisticness whatever ...**_

When the doorbell rings, his stomach doesn't flip anymore, like it used to, on those first evenings when Mary had left and he was all alone in the house with his self-pity and a bottle of cheap alcohol.

Strange how one likes to pick the cheap alcohol to get oneself even lower, to paint a vulgar picture of dreariness and dignity lost.

And strange how all the drama that is presented to us everyday by the entertainment industry has spoiled us into believing that live is supposed to work according to those rules, the rules of drama. So when you are at the lowest possible point, salvation just has to enter the stage, preferably with a fanfare or a stab of lightening – and of course that never happens.

So, he expected Holmes to miraculously return then. To find him, unwashed, his head on the table, reeking of cheap whiskey, eyes red, loss of sleep apparent and bereft of any wife whatsoever.

And then of course he would realize how things stood and everything would turn out all right.

And he would imagine what Holmes would say and what he would say in return and then what he would say and so and on until finally he had to accept that he would not come tonight.

And not the next night and not the next and not that time he was lying outside the inn in the gutter with the rain pouring down his sleeves and he was so certain this time that this had to be the moment if only he waited a little longer, just a few more minutes, and then he would see the familiar black shoes next to his nose and he would turn his head and Holmes would be kneeling down by his side and say „My god, John, what happened to you? Come home with me."

But he didn't and finally he woke up shivering in that same gutter, just the rain had stopped and he went home and decided that he had to stop with the drama and get one with his life.

Which he had done then, more or less.

So when the doorbell rings, his stomach doesn't flip and his palms don't turn sweaty and without undue hurry he goes to open the door only to loose all this wonderfully civilized composure in one breath.

"Hi."

It's Holmes, it is really him, all alone, covered in a black raincoat and wearing dark glasses, hair the usual mess and just a little damp from the high humidity in the air.

"You, my god, are you …? can you …?" he doesn't dare finish the question for fear that voicing it will break the spell, ruin that fragile miracle.

"Yes." the detective answers, his voice soft and a little insecure, as if he too, was afraid to summon disaster by putting the grace into words. "I can see you."

"Oh my god, that's wonderful. But, don't stand there, come on in." Watson hurries to usher his guest into the house, staring at him as if unsure whether it is really him or some unworldly apparition. "Since when?"

"I came here as soon as the doctor would let me go. Which wasn't until I had spent a week under observation. Can you believe it? Those medical men are so bothersome." He gives a small smirk.

"You could have sent a message." Watson states not responding to the remark.

"Well, he kept me because he suspected it to be a temporal effect and I didn't want to give you false hopes."

"But now he's sure it's permanent?"

Holmes shrugs. "About 80 % sure, I think. But good enough for me, I'm not going to complain."

Watson keeps shaking his head and then suddenly pulls the friend into a short but eager hug. "God, it's so good to see you."

"And all the more to see _you_." Holmes answers, looking at the other man happily and a little wistful.

"May I?" Watson asks, seizing for the glasses.

Holmes instinctively turns his face away. "Don't. It looks pretty horrible." he says, now more constrained and with a hint of defiance.

The doctor is taken aback by that reaction but doesn't give up so easily. "Come on, let me see. I'm a doctor, I'm sure I've seen far worse."

He has closed in on the smaller man, cutting off his escape and cornering him, back to the wall. When there is no more resistance voiced, he gingerly takes the glasses off. The cuts around the eyes have scarred and the skin is still quite red and swollen, but the eyes are good, just like they used to be, only holding a little more insecurity, maybe more pain at the bottom, but he might over-interpret here.

Holmes had been staring at him unmoving, face muscles tense.

"It's not that bad." Watson whispers softly. "Really not." And he backs away, handing back the glasses.

"Oh, well, considering the alternative …" Holmes mumbles and then looks up. "Where's Mary?"

The doctor's face falls a little. "Oh, she's moved out."

"What?" Holmes asks incredulously.

"Yes, back with her family." Watson answers and sinks down on the stairs. "She's trying to get the divorce application through at the moment."

Holmes' face is one big question mark. "What? But why?"

"Non-consumption of the marriage." Watson admits, coughing a little.

The other man gives him a sharp look. "What? But that's not true, is it?"

Looking a little abashed, the doctor turns his gaze to the ceiling. "Well, not for the whole course of our marriage admittedly. But I don't want to put stones in her way, she has had enough bad luck with her husbands. The first one dies and the second stops fulfilling his marital duties only 5 months after the oath."

"I didn't think Mary was the kind of woman that would immediately cry for divorce because of that." Holmes contemplates, looking sceptical.

"No, of course not. That's not the reason."

"Then what?"

"She wanted children."

"And?"

"And I said I couldn't have any."

"Is that right?"

"Not as far as I know. But I faked myself a medical report, saying I had gotten shrapnel in my balls during the war and that I was therefore infertile."

"You what?" Holmes starts a laugh, but breaks it up with a cough. "Sorry, that's not funny. Not even if it's only made up."

"Anyway, she left me. She was very determined on the child-thing."

"And she never wondered that there were no traces of the shrapnel that smashed your semen into invalidity?"

"Well, she never really took a close enough look to have any opinion on that."

"She didn't?" Holmes face is painted with bewilderment again.

"Yes, not your type of woman, I know." the doctor dismisses with a wave of the hand.

"Hm, pff." Holmes shrugs awkwardly. "I'm sure she's a wonderful woman in her own way, you know."

"Yeah, whatever. Knock it off." Watson stands up. "Tea maybe? Or a scotch? To honour the day?"

"Scotch is fine." Holmes answers.

"You know, maybe it was my fault." he offers non-committal as he follows his host into the sitting room.

"What was your fault?" Watson asks confused.

Holmes toys with the curtain a little. "The lack of procreational ability. You might remember," and here he looks straight at the doctor again "I rammed my knee into the family jewels."

Rising an eyebrow suspiciously Watson squints at the detective. "Could it be, that you are just bringing this up to lead the conversation to the topic of me pushing my tongue into your mouth?"

"What? No." Holmes refuses, sounding indignant.

"Really not? Because you know, that was that very same moment."

"No." Holmes repeats shaking his head in feigned bewilderment. "No. No, no, no. All right yes."

Those last words come out dry and quite monotone, but still they manage to lock both men in a harsh silence, staring at each other.

After a moment Holmes breaks the silence. "I knew it." he screams.

And now it is Watson's turn to say "What?"

The detective raises an accusing finger. "You took advantage of me because I was blind. Now that I have the full faculty of my sight again, you don't dare to do that any more."

Not believing his ears Watson stands open-mouthed for a second and then fires back: "What? As you just commemorated a moment ago, I had a knee colliding with my most sensitive parts the last time I tried. If you know anything about learning theory you should see that this is a strong disincentive."

Holmes stops and thinks. "Is it now?"

"It definitely is." the doctor affirms.

Putting a pondering finger to his lips, Holmes looks at his friend quizzically. "So what would be a good incentive?"

"I don't know, can't you think of anything?" the other man replies sulkily.

"Oh come on, you know I'm no good at this." Holmes pleads, but Watson just puts his hands up clueless.

Holmes sighs and comes closer to him. "Alright, let's see. Maybe if I stroke your hair a little?"

He does so, the doctor's breathing turning short and sharp at the closeness of their faces.

"And maybe your cheek, as well." he goes on, executing that same proposal tenderly.

"I think it's working." Watson murmurs, sneaking his arms around the other's waist, pulling him even closer.

"Good." Holmes manages, just before their lips collide.


End file.
